


Smoke Wisps

by InuToshio



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 03:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20167624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InuToshio/pseuds/InuToshio
Summary: I OWN NOTHING THIS IS SIMPLY A RE-POST OF A DELETED STORY"A BLU spy and a RED sniper ignite a forbidden friendship, and eventual romance, behind the backs of their teammates. Excuse the shitty summary." -MumblingmiceOriginally posted Sep 6, 2011 by mumblingmice on fanfic.net





	1. The Dilemma

**Author's Note:**

> The original fic was taken down years ago by the original author Mumbling Mice. It has survived through old screen caps posted to AO3 by another user Aesushi. I found the screen caps annoying to read through so I simply re-typed the story. I own neither the story nor Team Fortress 2. All credit goes to the original author.

_Be Polite. Be efficient. Have a plan to kill everyone you meet._

The sniper adjusted his sunglasses and squinted through the scope.

There was a flash of red in the corner. The sniper caught sight of a BLU Demoman drunkenly teetering along, popping off grenades behind him and occasionally taking swigs from a suspicious brown bottle tucked in his utility belt. 

Sniper focused on his bobbing head, and the gunshot rang out with a satisfying _pow_. 

"Sorry about the other eye, mate," the sniper muttered, observing his damage through the crosshairs with a soft smirk. 

He raised his head and flicked his hat up, about to reload his gun when he heard a faint creak behind him. He jerked his head over his shoulder and, clutching his kukri tightly, surveyed the room. Nothing.

He paused a moment and held his breath, listening carefully; still nothing. He exhaled and pushed his sunglasses about his nose, relieved that he was alone, but when he went to sheath his kukri he felt a light touch on his shoulder. 

Instinctively, he grabbed at whatever caused the sensation with quick reflexes and grasped onto what felt like a wrist. As soon as he clutched it, the nothingness began to form into a masked man in a blue pinstriped suit. He wore an especially baffled expression, as if he were appalled by the audacity of the sniper to even dare try and defend himself. In the hand the sniper clutched was a particularly nifty little switchblade, no doubt intended for the sniper's throat. 

The spy hastily drew his primary weapon, an ornately engraved handgun, but the sniper jumped up and, still clutching the spy's wrist tightly, kicked the gun out of the Frenchman's hand. It conveniently flew out the small window the sniper had been using. 

"_Mon pistolet!"_ the spy cried out. 

With his free hand, the sniper took advantage of the distraction and yanked the switchblade from the other man's clutches, closed it ( with some difficulty), and shoved it into his back pocket. Drawing his kukri and holding it against the spy's neck, he growled, "Gimmie one good reason, wanker."

"With pleasure," the spy snarled, tearing open his suit jacket to reveal extensive wiring strapped throughout his chest. "If I die, you die as well."

The sniper inhaled sharply through his nose, but refused to loosen his grip on the knife, "What if I cut those wires off, and _then _kill you?" he snapped. 

"The only person capable of properly disconnection these wires without short-circuiting himself is the BLU Engineer. Try it and you're fried, bushman."

The sniper wrinkled his nose. "You're lyin'."

"Hm. Perhaps," the spy purred. "Perhaps _not_. Kill me now and you'll know for sure."

The sniper squinted at him for a moment, as if trying to prey answers from the spy's expression, but procured nothing. He removed the kukri from the spy's neck. The Frenchman cleared his throat haughtily and rubbed the spot where the knife had been pressed against it. 

"MAGGOT!" The RED Soldier's booming voice was somehow capable of surpassing even the engineer's loudest sentry guns in sheer volume and magnitude.

The sniper sheepishly poked his head through the window. Immediately a bullet from the enemy sniper his the edge of the window. 

"Son of a-!" The sniper ducked back down as the spy burst into a fit of pompous laughter. "Stuff it," the sniper snapped, before peeking his head over the slightest edge of the window. 

The soldier was staring up at him (or at least it seemed he was; it was impossible to tell how the soldier saw at all with that helmet covering his eyes) with a sour frown tugging on his face. His rocket launcher, emitting wisps of smoke like the spy's cigarette, was perched on his shoulder. "I HOPE YOU ACTUALLY PLAN ON KILLING SOME OF THESE BLU-BALLED BASTARDS, PRIVATE, INSTEAD OF PLAYING TEA PARTY WITH YOUR JARS OF BODILY FLUIDS."

Another shot grazed the edge of the window. "I am!" the sniper hissed angrily.

"THEN I WANT TO SEE MORE EXPLODING HEADS!" The soldier saluted him, and then teetered off. 

"Crazy bloody bastard," the sniper mumbled to himself, scratching his head underneath his hat. "Nearly gave me a right heat attack, there."

"He also blew your cover," the BLU spy drawled, blowing rings of smoke into the air. He casually stepped aside as an arrow pierced the wall only a few inches away from his shoulder.

"Christ!" the sniper exclaimed, gathering up his rifle and pressing up against the wall to the immediate left of the tiny window. 

_Pop. Pop. Pop._

Blue grenades began to fly in though the window. They exploded with an ear-ringing crack upon contact with the creaky, yet oddly resilient wooden floor. In their wake they left charcoal black scorch marks. The sniper did now want to know what kind of marks they'd leave on his body... if there would be any of his body left to mark. 

The sniper drew in a quick breath of air and nervously chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to think. Truth be told, he wasn't a good planner. He planted himself in a nest and picked off the ants below. He rarely thought ahead, even off the battlefield; hell, if he did, maybe he'd be living in an actual house. 

"Why don't you just open the door?" the enemy spy suggested with a sweeping, over-exaggerated gesture towards the exit, using the same tone he might put on if he was talking to a three-year-old. 

"Oh, you'd like that wouldn't you?" The sniper laughed bitterly. A rogue grenade landed near the mile of mason jars. The Australian's gut clenched as five jars of urine shattered and soaked the floor with their contents. What a waste. 

"So you'd rather sit in here and get blown up than unlock the door?" The BLU spy somehow managed to keep an unusually calm demeanor as grenades repeatedly detonated around him. Granted, they'd all grown quite used to the ear-splitting noise, rumbling sensation of explosions, and the ever-looming threat of violent (yet no-so-permanent) death by now. 

The sniper kept to himself, but he at least had some selvage of loyalty for his team. "If unlocking that door means you get to slip away and kill the rest of my team, then _yes_. I would rather sit here and get blown up."

"And what exactly would i kill them _with_?" The spy scoffed, rolling his eyes. "My knife is in your pocket and you knocked my revolver out the window."

The sniper patted his back pocket, almost as if he didn't believe the spy. "That's right." For a moment he nearly considered the enemy spy's suggestion, but instead of taking the advice the Australian pushed his aviators up the bridge of his nose and squinted at the smirking Frenchman. "Then again, I could just take you out now with me."

The smug expression faded from the spy's face. "No," he whispered, the cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. 

"Why not? I'm gonna die anyway if I stay here," the sniper told his enemy through gritted teeth as he advanced on the spy. He whipped his kukri out. "If I've got a chance to take you out, I should take hold of that right now. I'll make sure to stab you in the back, nice and quick, so you know how it feels, too."

With the sniper's back turned to the window, he couldn't possibly have noticed the rocket hurdling through the air, shot by an especially relentless BLU soldier, aimed straight for the spot between his shoulder blades. The spy, however, did. 

In retrospect, the spy's next action was probably one of the stupidest things he had ever done in his life. Well, perhaps the second stupidest, if you count the incident with the quid and the underage nun back in Tuscany. Regardless, he wasn't quite sure what he was thinking when he seized the RED sniper by the shoulders and heaved them both out of danger's way. The rocket instead crashed through the door, reducing it to splinters and leaving a gaping hole to escape from.

The sniper was sprawled against the wall, slumped like an especially gangly marionette doll. He gingerly raised his arm and pushed up his hat, which had fallen down over his face. 

The spy was gone. 


	2. The Heartburn

The area was uncharacteristically quiet. It could, of course, be some sort of play. The sniper scanned the window on the other side through his scope, curious to see if there was a BLU sniper looking back at him. 

No one. 

The RED sniper would have dwelled on it longer, perhaps made an effort to check some of the other typical hiding spots, but a hot, nauseating sensation ran up his esophagus. He lowered his gun and put his hand to his chest, then glanced at the empty coffee mug on the ledge. He drank his coffee decaf, which meant he didn't get the jitters, but that didn't stop him from getting god awful heartburn. To be fair, he _had_ drank about six cups without eating anything all day. 

He considered seeking out the medic to see if he had any Pepto-Bismol, but decided against it. Might not be the most opportune time.

He inhaled, making a mental note to pack Rolaids next time. For now, he'd just have to suck it up and bear through it. 

He picked his rifle back up as a cool breeze came in though the window and tickled his bare head. He went to squint through the scope, but jolted back with a sudden horrific realization. 

_His head was bare._

He slapped his hand on his head- no hat to be found.

The sniper dropped his rifle with a clatter and spun around to find his had floating in midair, a mere few inches from his face. 

In a flurry of curling smoke wisps, the BLU spy materialized before him, wearing both his hat and a particularly unnerving grin. 

"_Boo._" The spy let the word slink out of his mouth slowly and deliberately as he savored the look of surprise, and gradual fury, on the sniper's face. 

Immediately the Australian lunged and wrapped his fingers around the spy's throat. The had flew off and toppled onto the ground. The smile on the spy's face became teeth clenched in struggle. His cigarette stub dropped from his lips and his gloved hands clawed on the sniper's ever-tightening grip, and the bushman could feel the veins in his neck tensing. The bit of skin the mask left bare was beginning to turn a frustrating shade of purple, and his skinny pinstriped legs twitched and jerked from the strain. His Italian leather shoes scuffed sloppily on the floor. 

The sniper probably could have killed him right then and there. But he didn't. He had a horrible, fleeting moment of empathy when he looked the spy in the eyes and remembered how he had knocked him out of danger's way. The wall still bore the hole from the destruction. 

He let go of the spy and sheathed his kukri.

The Frenchman took a moment to compose himself, gulping in deep breaths of air and massaging his neck. He cleared his throat, and then removed a handkerchief from a hidden pocket within his suit jacket. 

"Why?" he said in a hoarse voice, dabbing his forehead with the cloth. "Why did you stop? Why did you not kill me?"

"You saved me from getting hit by the rocket, last time you came up here. I don't have a clue why you did that, but I can't just pretend it never happened. So, I spared your life too. Now we're even." He crossed his arms and stared down the spy. 

"That makes a lot of sense," the spy answered, gingerly standing up. "but I would't have done that." 

"I'm not a sneaky, backstabbing son of a bitch, though, am i?" the sniper scoffed, still watching the spy suspiciously as he dusted off his suit. "I try to maintain a bit of courtesy."

The spy raised an eyebrow, and then poignantly glanced at the sniper's stack of urine-filled Mason jars. "_Oui_, the utmost courtesy." He turned on his heel towards the splintered area that used to be a doorway. 

"You're leaving?" the sniper said, dropping his arms to his sides. He was almost insulted.

"You wanted me to _stay_?" the spy asked, smirking over his shoulder.

"No-I-I'm just-" the sniper stuttered, flustered. "I expected you to try to kill me."

"I have better backs to stab, bushman. _Je suis desolee._" He opened his cigarette case with an expert flip, but rather than pulling out a smoke, he pressed a small button hidden within. In a cloud of the same curling trickery that appeared when he cloaked himself, the spy morphed into the RED medic. 

The disguised spy straightened himself and yanked at his illusory rubber gloves.

"_Auf Wiedersehen, _Herr Sniper," the faux medic said, in a flawlessly accurate rendition of the real medic's speech. The sniper almost would have believed it was the real doctor, had he not seen the enemy spy transform right there before him. 

The spy promptly galloped off, no doubt in search of the heavy weapons guy to latch on to. The sniper cringed- the poor bastard wouldn't stand a chance.

He stood there for a moment, after the medic doppelganger had left. Certainly he could run and warn someone, shout out to the others that there was a spy disguised as the medic... but he didn't. 

Instead he picked up his hat, walked back over to the window, and sat down on top of the same crate he had been at before. 

He went to replace his hat before picking up his rifle, but noticed a strangely uncomfortable sensation. It felt like a tag, but he was quite sure he'd cut the tag off of his had ages ago.

He whipped it off and peered inside to find a small slice of paper tucked within the inside lining. He pinched the corner and slit it out. 

The words were scrawled in blue ink. The sniper mouthed them silently as he read. 

_What do you think about when you sit all alone in your old gum tree, Kookaburra?_

The sniper frowned, crumpled the slip of paper, and tossed it over his shoulder. He had no desire to dwell on cryptic notes from spies.

As he sat in that nest of his, though, he couldn't help but notice it drift through his mind every once in a while. 

The sniper thought over many things up in his old gum tree. There wasn't much else to do but let your mind wander a bit sometimes, as long as you made sure to keep your main focus on the inane bloodshed down below. 

He thought about a lot of things, but he had no intention of ever sharing his contemplations with anyone. There was no point in reevaluating his thought process whilst on the job, because he sure as hell wasn't going to bother responding to the spy's childish note.

Besides, he'd always been the kind who kept to himself.


	3. The Family

The sniper shifted uncomfortably on the sagging floral couch. Growing up it had felt just fine, even if it was a little worn in and a bit stained. But now, it felt like he was sitting on doll furniture. He felt too big, too tall, too out of place. 

On the wall was a cuckoo clock. Its loud, grating ticking always unnerved the sniper. It always seemed much too forward for the quaint little living room. On the hour it spat out not a cuckoo bird, but a mustachioed kookaburra. The sniper averted his eyes down to his hat, which he was nervously fiddling with in his hands, suddenly remembering the stupid note from the bloody BLU spy. 

His mother bustled in, carrying a tray of pink lemonade. She was a stout woman, a good foot or two shorter than her son, with pink cheeks and a generally optimistic disposition. The sniper always had this strange thought that if she was an animal, she'd be a hen, clucking and bustling and picking. 

She set the tray down on the coffee table and the plopped herself down next to the sniper. She slapped her hands against his cheeks and frowned. "You haven't been eating, have you?"

"No, I-I've been eating just fine, mum."

"Hmmm," She frowned and inspected him in that strange way mothers do, the plucked off his sunglasses. "I don't know why you insist on wearing those indoors, the lighting's so dim. Your father hasn't gotten around to replacing the light bulbs." She licked her thumb and smoothed his hair the same way she would when he was eleven. "Such a handsome boy. Always was. If only you took care of yourself." she tsk'd. "Now, don't be so quiet, pumpkin." She turned away from him and fished out knitting needles and a ball of yarn from somewhere within the depth of the fathomless couch. "How've you been? Have you been sleeping well?" She tsk'd again, "You look so gaunt. Have you gotten around to settling down in a nice house, yet?"

"I..." Her knitting needles clicked together, gossiping between themselves. "I'm working on that."

"Mm." She pursed her lips together. "Best not mention that to your father."

"Yeah, where is he?"

"In his shed."

The sniper exhaled through his nose. His father had a habit of disappearing for hours on end in his shed when his son came to visit. His eyes scanned the wall in front of him, adorned with flowered wallpaper and portraits. There was the school photos from every year - seeing them always made the sniper feel a little jolt in his stomach, terribly embarrassed of his gawky, lopsided, big-eared adolescence. Above them were a few wedding photos, too - the sniper couldn't help but notice that his father looked miserable even at his own wedding. And then... then there was Steve. Pictures of the sniper had stopped soon after his last year of high school, but his brother Steve's entire goddamn life was chronicled on the wall. Steve's first mustache, Steve's wedding, Steve's wombat farm. 

"When he comes in," his mother said, snapping him back into the conversation. "Try not to mention the J-O-B."

"Yeah...Yeah, that's probably a good idea."

His mother paused, then set down her knitting and rested her plump, warm hand on his knee. "It's not too late to go to med school, Lawrence."

The sniper winced. Not only was he grossly unused to hearing his own name, he had been subjected to the "doctor" talk more times than he could possibly count.

"I don't want to go to med school, mum," he mumbled, fumbling with his hat again. "Sides, I know a doctor. He and I make the same amount of cash, I swear it."

Her eyes widened. "You're friends with a doctor?"

"Well, not really friends, but-"

A light bell tinkled from down the hall; someone had opened the door. A pair of boots scrapped against the welcome mat. 

"Muriel?" The sniper's father was making his way towards the living room. "How's about you put on a pot of tea and-" He stopped at the door frame, his drooping face turning into a low, bitter frown. "You're still here," he observed coldly, crossing his thick arms over his overalled chest.

"I should probably be going, actually." The sniper hastily stood up and fumbled to pull his sunglasses out from his shirt pocket.

"Need to get to the schoolyard early, I suppose? Want to make sure you've got a good spot to shoot at the kids when they go out to play, then?" His father leaned against the doorway, arms crossed tight and nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Oh, dear." the sniper's mother groaned, burying her face in her hands.

"I don't shoot _kids_, Dad!" the sniper snapped, crumpling his had in his fist.

"Then maybe you should stop driving around in that bloody van, because it certainly says otherwise!"

"There's nothing wrong with my van!"

"Oh, sure. If you want to look like a registered sex offender!"

The clock struck on the hour, and the kookaburra popped out, chortling at the sniper's misfortune. The note he had found in his hat came drifting back into his mind.

_What do you think about when you sit all alone in your old gum tree, Kookaburra?_

The man drew in a sharp breath and smashed his hat on his head. "Have a good day," he growled, storming out through the screened front door. The bell tinkled cheerfully, like it was trying to brighten his spirits, but hearing it just pissed him off.

His van was parked a long ways down the narrow dirt road that stretched out in front of the small house, and he found himself angrily storming away from an uncomfortably long time. He chanced a glance over his shoulder and saw his mother standing on the porch. She raised her hand to wave, but he turned his head before he noticed.

He slapped his hands on the steering wheel of his van. He knew his mother was still watching him but he couldn't bring himself to look back at her. He wriggled his keys out of his pocket and jammed them into the ignition. The old girl took a few turns to start up but once she got going, she was a steady enough drive. 

He didn't quite care what he looked like, driving his van. It was convenient and it worked. That was all there was to it. 

He guided the van down along the road, fiddling with the radio. He needed to find something to get his mind off of things. 

That was one of the problems with his job. For the most part it was good, but it gave you too much time to think. It's not like now, in the van, where he could turn on music and get lost. He had to be all eyes and ears.

If that bloody spy really wanted to know what the sniper thought about so badly, he should've come to visit his parents' house with him. 


	4. The Voyeur

The BLU spy cracked his knuckles. It was an old habit of his, and normally it would be an unfortunate habit for a man who relied on stealth, but he had learned to train himself to do everything quietly.

As he looked down at his gloved hands, he noticed one of his cufflinks was missing. _Merde_, he thought bitterly, rolling his eyes. Of course, the day he decides to wear his favorite cufflinks, one of them falls off. Murphy's law loved him far too much. 

Perhaps he'd try searching the area later tonight, after the battle. He could ask the engineer for a metal detector... but did he really care enough to bother? He owned so many others. Besides, if the man had been gracious enough to lend him wires to tape under his suit to create the impression of a bomb strapped across his chest, it would just be a burden to ask for more. 

The RED sniper exhaled across the room, then scratched his stubbled cheek.

The BLU spy was technically supposed to be trying to sap the sentry out in the courtyard, but the truth was, he didn't feel like it. The spy liked to think of himself as a sophisticated, scheduled man, but in truth he was quite ornery. Unlike _some_ members of his team, he lacked the fervor to passionately and repeatedly attempt to thwart the enemy. He'd never been one to take sides, nor to be loyal too quickly.

So instead of sapping the sentry the beeped and whirred and shot three spinning missiles at the slightest hint of blue, he was sitting cross-legged on top of a barrel, high above the thoughtless bloodshed. 

He couldn't quite put his finger on why he found the Australian so intriguing. He wasn't one to dwell on these sorts of things.

He supposed it was the concept of privacy that the man maintained. The spy was a clever man, and had come to observe that the quiet ones always have the most to say.

The sniper exhaled again, and leaned back. The spy couldn't see his eyes past the tinted sunglasses, but the man's brows were knotted in frustration. He scooted away from the window he'd been watching from, and hastily fumbled a crumpled letter out of his pocket. It had been already been ripped open, quite clumsily. The spy cringed - letter openers existed for a _reason_.

He unfolded the note within; a small photograph fluttered to the ground. His curiosity getting the better of him, the spy tiptoed over to get a better view. The photograph was a picture of a brown-haired little girl of about three years old, wearing a piano key grin and holding a bubble wand. The spy cocked his head and blinked down to the letter, standing precariously over the sniper's shoulder. 

_Lawrence,_

_I'm very sorry for the other day. Your father and I feel terrible. You know we love you, pumpkin. It's just hard for us to understand. But, as long as you're happy. Speaking of which, I do hope you've started looking into getting a house like we talked about. Steve has added another acre to his wombat farm. His little Sheila is growing up so fast! I put a picture of her, for you to see. Isn't she such a darling? Kate is a lovely mother. I hope, once you get your home, you think about settling down and finding a nice wife. I know how shy you can be around women, though, pumpkin. Would you like me to set you up with the Wilsons' daughter down the road? She's five or so years younger than you and a bit plump, but very sweet. Write back soon._

_Love, Mum._

The spy had one of those rare moments when he forgot to be quiet by emitting a horse-like snort from his nose.

The sniper's head snapped up and the letter crumpled in his fist.

"Hope that ain't who I think it is," he growled in a low tone. The spy slid smoothly out of the sniper's reach, slightly disturbed by the man's ability to appear to be looking directly at him despite his invisibility. 

"Take that bloody cloak off, ya cowardly piker!" he snapped at the naked air, jumping to his feet and withdrawing his kukri.

The spy slinked towards the exit, creeping cautiously.

"You're a creepy, sick son of a bitch, you know that?" the sniper continued. He was waving a knife, but he was spinning on the spot, unsure of where to address his words. "Sneaking around, but never man enough to _do_ anything-I-I'm a _professional_, you pansy bastard! I don't need to deal with bastards playing games with me!"

A pair of heavy boots began to clomp up the stairs. The spy flattened himself against the wall as the RED demoman bounded past him.

"Hullo, lad," the Scotsman slurred pleasantly as he loaded an array of sticky bombs into his launcher. "What're you shoutin' about all alone up here, aye? Havin' a lover's quarrel with the windowsill?" He rubbed his palm under his swollen nose and swayed over to the window, where he began to pop sticky bombs down near the entrance of their base.

"Thought I heard a spy."

"You want me to send the pyro up here to sweep the place?"

The BLU spy recoiled, wrinkling his nose. There was nothing he hated more than the enemy pyro, the soulless shell of a human that lit poor, innocent spies aflame and the cackled like a primate while the flesh of his enemies smoldered. _ Baiseur._

"Nah, it's alright. He's probably gone now."

"Probably." The demoman backed up from the window and reached for his trademark bottle of scrumpy. "Oh, aye? Who's this little lass?" He crouched down and picked up the photograph of the little girl.

"My niece, Sheila."

"I didn't know you had a niece, boy. She's mighty cute." He handed the picture back to the sniper.

"Thanks, mate." He tucked the picture into his shirt pocket.

The demoman began to waddle towards the exit. He paused a moment, right where the spy was pressed up against the wall. For a moment, the spy was almost entirely sure that the Scotsman had sensed his presence. But instead, he just pressed his hand to his stomach and let out an impressive, albeit disgusting, belch.

The spy wrinkled his nose, revolted by the disgusting explosives expert. Was it really so difficult for Mann Co. to find _somewhat_ civilized human beings to work for them? Either they were stupid and insane or gross and insane or fat and insane or, worst of all, _clever_ and insane. 

And then there was that sniper.

The spy was the kind of person who had always found people interesting. He didn't necessarily _like_ them, but they intrigued him. It helped, being able to observe people the way he did. It made it possible for him to _become_ someone, because he was capable of picking up their habits and dialects and posture. His line of work was half theatre and half psychology.

By this point the spy had very little trouble figuring people out. The sniper... the Frenchman couldn't put his finger on it. He couldn't explain it. That's exactly what drew him to the sniper; _he couldn't figure him out._

The spy decided to leave and get on with sapping the stupid sentry. He didn't particularly want to, but... _c'est la vie._


	5. The Handkerchief

The sniper saw something glinting out of the corner of his eye. He frowned and crouched down, pinching the little silver piece between his forefinger and thumb. He held it up to his face and peered over his sunglasses.

It was a cufflink in the design of two crossed pistols, even though they were very small, had an astounding amount of detail to them. He rolled it around between his fingers. It was in terrific condition... either it was never worn or it was expertly polished.

Either way, there was only one person who would be sneaking around clad in cufflinks.

He plopped the little piece of haberdashery in his shirt pocket with the photograph.

The two objects nestled together for quite some time up in his roost. Down below, he heard the engineer cry out in frustration- the BLU spy must have sapped his sentry, because soon after that he heard an explosion of metal and wires. "

"_Dagnabit dammit nabbit daggit!" _Sometimes the engineer's muffled swears reminded the sniper of Bugs Bunny. He grinned to himself. 

There was a scuffle behind him. The demoman was back, walking a bit more soberly than he had been before. The sniper typically wasn't one to judge, but he certainly did feel a tad more comfortable when the demoman wasn't hammered out of his mind. 

"Hello again, lad," the Scotsman drawled.

"Back to set down more sticky bombs?" the sniper asked, leaning away from the window and pulling back his rifle.

"Aye," the demoman approached the window, hoisting up his bomb launcher. "Oh, boy?" He pointed a thick finger down at the sniper's feet. "Your boot. It's untied."

"Oh, it is. Didn't notice that." He crouched down to tie it, and as he bent over, the cufflink slipped out of his pocket and clinked on the floor.

The demoman side-eyed the little piece of jewelry, then swiftly bent down to snatch it. The Australian was quicker, cupping his hand over it and slowly dragging it towards himself like a cat with a ball of yarn.

"Dropped my cufflink," he mumbled, slipping it back into his pocket.

"That's not your cufflink," the demoman said a little too quickly.

"Oh, no. It is."

The demoman shifted uncomfortably with a sour look on his face. His one eye glared at the sniper in an unsettlingly sober way. "Then why'd it in your pocket, hm? Why isn't it on your cuffs? Why've you only got one?"

"Lost the other one, so I took this one off and kept it in my pocket."

"You tell lies, bushman!" the demoman's slurred Scottish dialect started slipping into something more guttural and European. "That cufflink is _far_ too extravagant for someone like _you_ to own! Silver crossed pistols- _obviously_ a custom piece!"

The sniper smiled lightly at the disguised spy, amused by the fact that he wasn't even trying anymore.

"If you want your cufflink back, Spy, you could have just asked politely. S'what normal people do." He plucked it back out of his pocket and flicked it into the air with a pop of his thumb, like he was igniting a lighter. The spy caught it by clapping it between his hands; upon contact he morphed back into his usual blue-suited form.

"_Normal_," the spy scoffed, attaching the cufflink back to his suit. "I do not think anyone here would know 'normal' if it danced naked in their faces, Lawrence."

The sniper froze. "What did you just call me?"

The spy smiled coyly, withdrawing his cigarette case. "Lawrence. It is your name, _non_?"

"But..." The sniper wasn't quite threatened by the fact the spy knew his name as he was baffled, and slightly embarrassed. He tried wracking his brain. How could he have possibly...?

The crumpled letter, tucked in his back pocket. 

Of _course._

Without a moment's hesitation, the sniper threw his fist against the spy's nose.

"Ach!" the spy cried out as the unexpected punch sent him stumbling down to his knees. The cigarette case clattered to the ground. The sniper, breathing heavily from the sudden rush of adrenaline, looked down at the blood smeared on his knuckles.

The spy turned back to look at the sniper. Bright red blood blossomed beneath his balaclava and dribbled down into his snarling lips. "_Fils de pute," _he growled, the top row of his teeth stained red. He ran his tongue over them and grinned devilishly. "You got blood on my suit."

The spy produced to rip his balisong out of his pocket and switch it open with the flourish of an especially depraved magician. Knife withdrawn, he pounced at the sniper like a cat with its claws bared. The sniper grabbed him by the wrists and kneed him in the stomach, but not before the spy managed to sink his knife into the sniper's arm.

"Ah, piss!" The sniper released the spy and ripped the stinging knife out of his arm. He cried out in pain as he pulled it out; it was more painful coming out than going in. A patch on his arm began to turn several shades a darker crimson. Light-headed, the sniper backed against the wall and slid down, clenching his teeth.

The spy began to laugh in a breathless, hysterical sort of way as he held his stomach. Still laughing he straightened up and panted, "I like this game, Lawrence." The blood was dripping down his chin but the didn't notice, he just continued to grin and got closer to his RED enemy.

"What game?" the sniper inquired in a gravelly tone as he shot daggers from his eyes at the French bastard.

"This game of ours, _mon ami_, this brilliant game of cat-and-mouse." He was standing over the sniper now, a sleek magnificent bastard who was somehow able to be dapper as hell even with blood blooming all over his jaw. He reached into his jacket and the sniper flinched. With a smirk, the spy removed a large, light blue handkerchief. He dropped it over the sniper and let it flutter into the man's lap. "Please, clean yourself up."

The sniper pinched the hankie and held it up before him, frowning, as the spy picked his cigarette case back up.

"Ugh, I will do it for you if you are so inept." The spy snatched the handkerchief back and crouched down next to his RED rival.

The sniper watched, wordless and puzzled, as the spy pushed his sleeve up and gently wrapped the handkerchief around the oozing knife wound.

"I do now wish to kill you, Lawrence," He said as he tied the handkerchief. He looked up at the sniper and studied his expression. "You don't have to believe me."

The sniper continued to stare at the Frenchman silently. In truth, he wasn't quite sure what to think or what to say. The sniper wasn't a very social person to begin with. Regular interaction proved to be a struggle for him; how was he possibly supposed to react to this spy who tried to stab him one minute, and then kiss the wound better the next?

"I wouldn't believe me, either, honestly." the spy mumbled with a cigarette between his teeth. He still hadn't bothered to clean his face, which struck the sniper as strange for such an appearance-invested man to do. "I suppose that is the one thing I regret about going into espionage." He lit his cigarette. "It is almost entirely impossible to form trusting relationships."

"You're insane," the sniper finally spoke.

"The spy smirked. "_Non,_" he said, taking a drag from his cigarette and blowing smoke into the air. "Unlike the rest of these animals, I am not insane. And neither are you. I believe we have more in common than either of us would like to admit."

The sniper frowned at the ground. Subconsciously, his good hand rested over the bandaged wound. It was wrapped tight, but not too tight. Just snug enough. "What do you want from me?" he asked, still refusing to look at the spy.

"Nothing you would ever be willing to give me."

With these words, the spy melted into thin air, disappearing before the sniper's very eyes.

The sniper sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ignore the throbbing sting in his arm. He hoisted himself up on his feet and started towards the window, where he'd get back to work and try to get his mind off of cryptic spies.

"Although." Hot smoky breath suddenly curled into the sniper's ear just when he though he was alone. It made the hair on the back of his neck dance. "Perhaps you would be. You're a very introspective man, Lawrence. I can never quite be sure what you're thinking." The voice got farther away as the spy presumably headed towards the exit. "That's the fun of it all."


	6. The Intelligence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken so long to post more chapters, for the first 5 chapters I had to manually type everything from a screenshot which was a pain to say the least. But now I've found a photo to text generator so it's a ton easier now. Only downside is it doesn't read everything correctly. I've gone through and tried to catch most of the errors, but if any remain I'm sorry. The remaining chapters should be posted fairly soon.

  
_"' I can 't get no satisfaction_   
_I can 't get no satisfaction_   
_'Cause I try_   
_And I try_   
_And I try_   
_And I try_   
_I can't get no,_   
_I can't get no"_

  
The radio sometimes had a habit of crackling, even when the skies were clear. The sniper would bang his fist on the dashboard and usually that would get the sound  
back.

  
Something toppled over behind him as he hit a bump in the road—things were typically falling all over the place in his van, but today he was especially on edge,  
straightening his mirror and taking a glimpse behind to check on the precious blue suitcase.

  
"Listen, Stretch." The engineer had approached him outside of the RED base that day after the battle, carrying BLUs intelligence which their heavy weapons guy had  
captured. "This intel here has got to get to headquarters. Closest RED outpost is about two hours from here. I know you've got your van and like to drive about a lot.  
Thought maybe you wouldn't mind dropping it off."

  
"S'not a problem," the sniper had shrugged. He didn't exactly have any plans.

  
"Mighty nice of you, pardner." The engineer grinned widely and pushed the suitcase into the sniper's arms. The Australian was surprised by the weight, buckling  
slightly. The wound in his arm, still sore from the spy's hack job, throbbed painfully.

  
"Christ," he'd gasped. "You got a body in here?"

  
The engineer shrugged as he walked off towards his pick-up truck, a humble, yet sturdy brown pick-up truck he kept parked near the entrance. "Dunno. Could be.  
You never know with those son ofa bitchin' BLUs."

  
_"' When I'm drivin' in my car_   
_And a man comes on the radio_   
_He's telling me more and more_   
_about some useless information_   
_supposed to fire my imagination"_

  
The sniper typically wasn't one for popular music these days, but quite liked the Stones. This song was a couple years old so it didn't come on the radio as often as it  
did when It first came out. It was a nice treat to hear it.

  
He decided that he was content, driving down this lonely road, listening to a good song on the radio.

  
That couldn't last long, though, of course. When he went over another bump he heard the shatter of glass and the stomach-dropping splat of liquid. He kept driving  
and glanced over his shoulder, trying to see what had broken, but the eventual smell of stale ammonia that began to seep into the air gave it away.  
"Ah, piss," he grumbled, jerking the van to a halt and climbing to the back.

  
The sniper wasn't a particularly messy person. People often seemed surprised by this—the truth was, he didn't have much to make a mess with. He learned to live a  
pretty minimally material lifestyle. Sometimes he'd take awhile to empty the ashtray, and maybe he'd leave an empty bag of potato chips on the floor for a day too  
long, but for the most part he tried to keep things somewhat orderly.

  
That was the problem about the Jarate. It took up a lot of room.

He'd acquired a somewhat embarrassing habit of bottling his urine outside of the battlefield. He couldn't quite pinpoint when and why—it could have to do with  
convenience. As typical of Australians, he had an overabundance of Vegemite jars at his disposal. No sense In letting it all go to waste, right?

  
And it's always useful to have more than less.

  
Isn't it?

  
Shattered glass glittered the gray carpeted floor; beneath it, a dark, wet stain blossomed and ran down across the entire rug.

  
"Bloody brilliant," he sighed, trying to be thankful that at least his Murphy bed was folded up and hadn't been touched.

  
He carefully picked up the pieces of broken glass, mistakenly nicking his calloused fingers a few times. Sucking on his bleeding thumb, he tossed them off the side of  
the road, making sure not to get any on the pavement; If someone ran over glass they'd get an awful popped tire.

  
He laid towels down over the stain and stomped on them with his heavy boots, trying to soak up the mess without touching it. He honestly felt quite idiotic, marching  
around on his own piss. This should not be something grown men do.

  
After a moment he stopped and stared down at the damp towels, now slightly tinged with dark yellow. His rug wasn't wet anymore, but now his towels were.  
He decided to just dump them off the side of the road, too. He could get new ones, anyway.

  
The smell still lingered in the air, and the sniper made a mental note to pick up air freshener along with the towels. Maybe apricot scented, this time.

  
At least the intel didn't get ruined, he told himself as he was about to climb back into the driver's seat. But he paused, and glanced back behind him with a horrible  
feeling pulling at his chest.

  
It was gone.

  
His head darted wildly around the cramped interior of the camper. It was a huge, blue suitcase; wasn't hard to miss. He was positive he had placed it right on top of  
the cooler. Had he thrown It out with the towels and the glass? No, that wouldn't make any sense—

  
A familiar, smoky fragrance slowly crept over the scent of urine.

  
"Don't bother looking for it, Lawrence." The only part of the BLU spy the sniper could see was his arm, which he waved in a blasé manner from his place in the  
passenger's seat. "It wasn't the real intelligence."

  
The sniper sighed heavily. He was too exhausted to get angry.

  
The spy turned and poked his head through the gap between the two front seats. His cigarette was held tightly between his wide, grinning teeth. The stained  
balaclava had been replaced by a fresh, clean one.

  
"How...?"

  
The sniper gaped at him, scratching his head underneath his hat.

  
"You would not believe me, but I will tell you anyway." He sucked on the cigarette. "The soldier got this cockamamie scheme to trick you and the rest of your REDs. He  
hid the real intelligence underneath the desk, and had me disguise as the suitcase. So yes, there was, indeed, a body in the attaché. Or rather, the attaché was a  
body." He blew smokes rings. "Although I must admit I was a little put off by how much you seemed to be struggling with me. Either I have gained weight, or you are  
weaker than you appear. Let us hope It is the latter."

"How... how did you disguise as a suitcase? That doesn't make any—

  
"Creative license."

  
The sniper crossed his arms, frowning.

  
"By the way, it was I who broke your jar of piss. I was thirsty and under the mistaken impression that it was apple juice. Désolé."

  
The sniper turned and climbed out of the back door of his camper.

  
"' Where are you going?

  
He walked around the van to the passenger's side and yanked open the door.

  
"Get. Out." He stepped back and pointed southward.

  
The spy raised his chin critically and stared at the sniper in an apprehensive fashion. "Why?"

  
"Because you can't be in my van."

  
"Why?" The spy was smiling lightly now; the sadistic bastard seemed to revel in pushing people's buttons.

  
"Because you're on BLU!" The sniper spat, throwing his arms out in the air in exasperation. Was it not obvious? They were enemies, weren't they?

  
"So?" The Frenchman crossed his legs and pinched his cigarette between his forefinger and middle finger. "Bushman, we are off duty. You yourself value  
professionalism in the work place. To my knowledge, professionals do not hold grudges against those who are also just doing their job."

  
The BLU spy had stabbed the sniper right in his dignity. Make that sadistic and clever bastard.

  
"Besides," the spy added, gesturing to their surroundings. "How exactly would you propose I travel this wasteland? I'd be stranded."

  
The sniper exhaled in frustration, then slammed the door shot. The spy grinned mischievously as he plopped himself down into the driver's seat.

"I'll take you as far as you need to go. That's _it_."


	7. The Diner

_"'Well, she wrote me a letter_   
_sad she couldn't live without me no mo'_   
_Listen Mister, can't you see_   
_I got to get back to my baby once mo'_   
_Anyway, yeah"_

  
"Ugh." The spy let his displeasure for the track be known by making a particularly grating guttural noise and drumming his fingers against the armrest.

  
The sniper leaned over and twisted the knob, sorting through the stations. He didn't mind The Box Tops so much, but he'd rather just change the song than listen to  
the spy complain. He settled on the Spencer Davis Group—they were actually pretty good. Come to think of it, music these days wasn't too bad, so long as it wasn't  
that sappy Frankie Valli or Beatles shit.

  
_"' Well my pad is very messy_   
_And there's whiskers on my chin_   
_And I'm all hung up on music_   
_And I always play to win_   
_I ain't got no time for lovin'_   
_Cause my time is all used up_   
_Just to sit around creatin '_   
_All that groovy kind of stuff"_

  
"You are trying to kill me, aren't you, Lawrence?" the spy scoffed, crossing his arms. "This must be revenge for stabbing you in the arm."

  
_"' I'm a man_   
_Yes I am_   
_and I can't help_   
_but love you so. "_

  
"S'my van," the sniper grunted, pushing his glasses up his nose with his thumb. "My radio. My choice."

  
The sniper, in truth, wasn't quite accustomed to having other people in his van with him. The last time he'd shared the van was back in Oregon, when the scout  
asked for a ride Into Portland. It didn't end well; the blood took two weeks to wash out of the driver's seat.

  
The sniper wasn't used to passengers, and he certainly was not used to passengers like the man currently sitting next to him, that suited enigmatic bastard who still  
managed to have a frustrating sort of charisma to him.

  
He didn't know what to think. He was certainly no engineer; he wasn't someone who solved puzzles. And the spy was most definitely a puzzle.

  
The sniper... he really didn't understand people. They made no sense to him, with their mind games and hang-ups and grudges. He often felt like an observer, which,  
as a sniper, technically was his job; to survey and strike.

  
But he felt like an observer the entire time, a third party observer, on the outside looking in. He wasn't so much comfortable with this as he was used to it.

  
But this spy... well, he had a nasty habit of rocking that steady ship away from its seemingly predestined course.

  
"Ah!" The spy swiftly sat up in his seat and pointed ahead. Before then he had been quite still; the sudden movement nearly made the sniper choke on his own spit.  
The Frenchman was pointing to a sign advertising RITA'S DINER, 2 MILES.

  
"We must stop there," he told the sniper. It was not a question, but a demand.

"Why?"

"Because I am hungry. I haven't eaten all day."

"It's probably a crap diner, though," the sniper told him truthfully as his stomach grumbled—he, too, hadn't eaten that day. He could go for a fat, juicy cheeseburger,  
with big, thick onion rings and Cole slaw on the side... he tried not to salivate—it was the exact sort of meal that would give him heartburn, first of all. And besides,  
he didn't want to stop at that diner and have to endure a meal with the man. "Greasy diner food, not the sort you're accustomed to, I'm sure."

  
The spy drew in a deep breath and sighed. "America," he groaned, rubbing the temple of the right side of his head with his ring finger and pinkie.  
The sniper chewed on the inside of his cheek. "I'm sure I got something lying around here—"

  
"Hon hon, non. If it is between the diner and whatever toxic bodily waste you have lying around here disguised as a meal, I will risk the greasy food."

  
Rita's Diner was exactly what one would imagine it to be; a relatively empty boxcar diner in the middle of dusty old nowhere, smoky and dimly lit with a black and  
white TV in the corner playing The Bride of Frankenstein. The place smelled like fried onions and lonely drifters looking for a sense of belonging.

  
It was strange, clutching a laminated menu and sitting across from the masked man in blue. The sniper was accustomed to seeing him wielding his trademark  
butterfly knife, grinning gleefully as he hovered over an unsuspecting victim... not idly scanning the breakfast menu of a diner.

  
"Can I get you two gents a bite to eat?" The waitress had bobbed blonde hair and dramatic, cat-eye streaks of liner over each eye. Her hips were twice the size of  
her bust, but she wasn't fat. Just curvy.

  
"Ah, oui, mademoiselle" the spy drawled. He rested his elbow on the table and smiled softly at her with deep, heavy-lidded eyes. The sniper averted his eyes down  
to his menu. "For starters would very much appreciate your finest black coffee with two sugars."

  
"Of course," she scribbled down the order on her plump pad of paper, but paused a moment. "Say, are you French?"

  
"I am whatever you want me to be, mon cherie." He ran his tongue smoothly over his bottom lip. "But my native land is, indeed, France."

  
Red apples bloomed on her cheeks and spent an uncomfortable amount of time smiling back at the spy.

  
The sniper cleared his throat.

  
The waitress blinked herself back into reality. "Oh, sorry," she said, turning to the sniper. "And you'd like...?"

  
"The same. Decaf and a bit more sugar, though." As he spoke, the sniper instinctively lifted his hand to his arm and rubbed the sore spot where the man sitting on  
the other side of the table had stabbed him. The handkerchief was still wrapped tautly around It.

  
"Be back with those in a tick. Take your time looking for your meals." She threw another quick, longing glance at the spy before turning and sashaying back behind  
the counter, to the kitchen.

  
"Mmm." The spy watched her back as she walked away. "That is un beau cul if I ever saw one."

  
The sniper looked up from his menu at the spy, who was staring back at him with his gloved hands interlaced. "Sorry, I don't know what a—what that is—"

  
"Cul... I suppose the closest English translation I could give you is ass. She has a nice ass."

  
"Oh." The sniper tightened his jaw and glanced back at the kitchen, which was currently void of any nice asses. "Hm."

"Hm, indeed. Young, pretty, child-rearing hips. I suppose your mother would be quite pleased if you brought her home, would she not, Lawrence?"

  
The sniper had almost forgotten that the spy had read the letter. He really had read all of it, hadn't he?

  
The fact that the self-proclaimed lady killer was aware that the sniper's mother was begging him for a wife was, needless to say, a bit embarrassing.

  
"I dunno." He shrugged. He pushed his glasses up on top of his head and squinted at the menu. He was strongly considering the clam chowder, mainly because it  
was the only Item he had actually been able to focus on for the entire time the spy was speaking.

  
"I can try to, you know, set you up with her, if you like."

  
The sniper furrowed his eyebrows and glanced up at the spy. The man was pulling out his trademark cigarette case—it almost disturbed the sniper, how often the  
Frenchman smoked. He wore a rather honest and lighthearted, albeit playful, expression on his face, and the sniper couldn't tell whether he was serious or just  
teasing him, as he so often took pleasure In doing.

  
Either way, he wasn't going to let him.

  
"I don't think so." Yes, it would probably be the clam chowder.

  
"You are a bachelor?" The spy broke into a grin.

  
"I guess you could say that, yeah." The sniper felt an emasculating flutter in his chest as he shifted uncomfortably, glancing over at the kitchen door in hopes the  
waitress would return with their coffee. "I just don't really think about that sort of thing."

  
"You lie through your teeth, bushman." The prediction was quick, low, and unsettlingly precise, but swiftly left to rot when the waitress came bustling back with two  
coffees. "Ah, mademoiselle! I was beginning to worry!"

  
"Sorry about the delay, boys," she sighed, setting the two cups down in front of each man. "Had a bit of a spill. Ready to order?"

  
"Clam chowder." Still dazed from the spy's moment of accusatory deduction, the words tumbled from his mouth before he even knew what he was saying. "Yeah.  
Clam chowder." He swallowed and handed her the menu. "I-I'd like a burger and onion rings, but It'd give me bloody awful indigestion."

  
"I will have it for you, then," the spy said, as if he was about to perform a noble and charitable cause. "One cheeseburger, onion rings, and... Cole slaw." The order  
was for the waitress, but he grinned at the sniper.

  
"You won't like it," the sniper told him knowingly, shaking his head.

  
"Do not tell me what I will and will not like, Lawrence."


	8. The Repression

"You know, I could've paid," the sniper mentioned when they had gotten back into the van. "I got money."

  
The spy had cranked the window down and was letting the cool dusk breeze whip past his face as they drove along down the barren road, presumably attempting to  
air himself out and get rid of the fragrance of fried onions that currently clung to him like strong cologne.

"Nonsense," he said In a clipped voice. He rested his hand lightly on his stomach and shifted in his seat, still staring out the window. "It was my idea to go there In the first place."

  
The sniper chewed on his lip, his stomach still full from his unexciting, yet relatively satisfying clam chowder.

  
"Besides," the spy added with an uneasy sigh. "I do not like people paying for me."

  
Yet, part of him had felt as though he had owed it to the spy—he wasn't sure why. Their meal together hadn't exactly been a delightful trip to the circus, but it had  
sort of... humanized the masked man, and made the sniper see him In a way he didn't think was quite possible.

  
Not that he liked him. He still found the spy to be frustratingly devilish.

  
He was certainly a talkative enough man, which was fine by the sniper, who never felt like he had much to say. The spy related his enormous, greasy hamburger to a  
man he met in Egypt who was capable of swallowing a live snake whole. From there he recounted his sexual encounter with three contortionists In Amsterdam. The  
sniper couldn't quite recall how he had related the two events, but it made sense at the time.

  
He wondered if any of it was true. Either way, the spy was a terrific storyteller, even if he was a sadistic asshole.

  
Regardless, the spy wasn't half as talkative as he had been back at the diner. He leaned his elbow on the car door with his head partially out the window. Something  
tugged hard at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes gazed out at the dusty wasteland with an especially acidic bitterness to them. The sniper figured it was  
probably just ennui.

  
"Lawrence," the spy spoke, suddenly, bolting up right in a rigid position and grabbing the sniper's arm. "You must stop the car."

  
"What-Why—?"

  
The sniper glanced at the spy—his exposed skin was tinged an almost inhuman greenish-grey.

  
The spy gasped out a string of foreign words. The sniper didn't speak a lick of French, but he wasn't an idiot. He let the van jerk to an instant halt.

  
The spy urgently fumbled with the door for a moment before kicking it open and stumbling into open air, which was slowly being tucked into a blanket of nightfall. He  
staggered a few feet away from the car, then keeled over and vomited.

  
The sniper sidled out of the van, feeling both a twinge of concern and a slight sense of I-told-you-so—he knew the spy wouldn't be able to stomach that slimy diner  
shit.

  
"You alright?" he called over, knowing very well that the spy was obviously not alright but asking anyway, because that's what you do.

  
The man was spitting out the acidic remains out into the dry dirt. For a long while he just stood there, bent over, not doing anything. Just staying still as a statue with  
his eyes squeezed shut, like he was trying his damnedest to pretend he was somewhere else.

  
Eventually he drew in a long peal of breath, and straightened himself. He shakily removed his gloves by plucking out each finger at a time, and then shoved them into  
his pocket. He reached within his suit jacket and wriggled out a handkerchief, somewhat similar to the one he had wrapped around the sniper's arm earlier that day.  
He dabbed the cloth around his mouth and then crushed It In his hand, refusing to face the sniper.

  
He stood there, with his arms crossed, a little bit longer. The sniper scratched behind his ear, feeling lost. "You want something to drink?" he asked.

  
"' Oui. Merci. "'

  
The sniper opened up the back of his van and dug out an unopened water bottle from his cooler. The spy had followed him like a deer hesitantly leaving its thicket, all  
the while wearing an expression that seemed to be a mixture of haughtiness and distress.

When the sniper handed him the bottle, he paused before twisting it open.

  
"I can drink it all?" he asked, knotting his eyebrows.

  
The sniper shrugged at the strange question. "Yeah, go ahead, I've got tons more." He sat down on the cliff of the van and cross his arms.

  
"Merci." The spy pressed the opening of the bottle to his lips and gulped it down thirstily, as if he had been stranded out in this desert for three days straight  
rivulet dripped down his chin and streaked his mask, which had been otherwise unharmed during his moment of violent illness.

  
When the bottle was drained, he held it and the balled-up handkerchief in one hand and pinched the bridge of his nose with the other.

  
"I'm sorry," he said in a raw, gravelly voice. "I feel... quite ashamed of myself."

  
"Don't have to apologize. You got sick. It happens to the best of us."

  
"I suppose it does." He spoke the words but didn't seem to believe them.

  
"You wanna lie down? I can pull down my bed for you." The suspicious look the spy shot him made him feel obligated to add. "It's a Murphy bed. I always keep it  
folded up If I'm not using It. It's very clean."

  
The spy peeled off his suit jacket as the sniper pulled down the bed. Underneath it, he wore a nicely tailored, crisp white shirt—the only flaw the sniper noticed was  
the slightly damp armpits. After tossing his suit jacket aside like It was a dirty towel, he hastily loosened his silk tie with quivering hands, as If he was trying to yank a  
noose away from his neck. The shoes (well-polished Italian leather) and the socks (argyle) were removed and added to the jumble. Lastly, he shrugged his  
suspenders off of his shoulders and let them dangle lazily around his waist. Like a good spy, he wouldn't take his mask off for the world.

  
The Frenchman climbed into the bed and curled up like a thin, slinky cat.

  
"You have a good heart, Lawrence," he mumbled weakly just when the sniper was about the climb into the front seat. "I am glad we are friends."

  
The sniper held the key to the ignition inches away from its designated slot, but was too distracted by the spy's muffled words to start the car. The spy's form was  
visible in the rear view mirror; the sniper pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head and adjusted the mirror to get a better look at the man.

  
I am glad we are friends.

  
But where they really friends? The sniper hadn't thought so; an afternoon of banter didn't quite count as friendship, did it?

  
Although, once you got past the insufferable snobbery and inability to ever be fully trusted, the spy wasn't so bad. He was entertaining enough. Clever. A fantastic  
storyteller.

  
And the strangest part was that he actually seemed to like the sniper. In fact, that's probably what disturbed the sniper the most about this situation. Not the fact  
that he was a spy or that he was on BLU, but the fact that he seemed genuinely interested in him. It... didn't quite make sense. It wasn't something the sniper was  
used to.

  
He rested his hand on his knee and continued to stare into the mirror. The spy's thin back expanded slightly with each intake of breath, and his shirt had sneakily  
untucked itself, revealing the pale, dimpled flesh of the small of his back. His bare feet flexed and nuzzled each other.

  
The sniper reached under his seat and groped around a bit before grasping a soft, dry ball of yarn. A few months ago his mother insisted on his 'getting a hobby'  
and mailed him some of her yarn and knitting needles. His thick fingers were clumsy at first and the stitches would slip out and be lopsided and sloppy, but eventually  
he got the hang of it.

  
He liked knitting, because it was a mindless, repetitive motion. Good for when you don't want to think about unpleasant things.

His mind had begun to wander back to their conversation in the diner.

  
Yes... yes. He had been lying through his teeth. But he had to lie. The spy couldn't possibly understand, because for all his cryptic antics, he was still far more normal  
than the sniper.

  
The needles clacked together and the tight yarn rubbed against the calloused skin of his forefinger. A hot, slow-moving claw was wriggling its way up his chest and  
squeezing its fist around his heart. The needles clacked together faster.

  
His... problem, for lack of a better word, wasn't something he'd been able to put a name to until he was older and started traveling. At first he'd thought he was just  
too shy to take interest in women, and maybe it was something he'd eventually grow out of... but he was thirty-five years old; far past the age of "growing out" of  
things.

  
So he just pushed it down to the bottom of his self and let it stew down there for a while, until it would get to a point where it was as if his very body was ripping at  
the seams, and the only way to settle everything back down was to—

  
His eyes drifted downward at the thought, where he saw the tiniest glimpse of a tattered magazine corner poking out from beneath the mattress. Right underneath  
the sleeping spy.

  
He swallowed a hard lump of horror and turned to look behind him; was there any way he could wriggle the magazine out from the mattress and quickly lock it in the  
glove compartment? Could he do it without waking the spy?

  
Or perhaps he could just leave it there and hope the man wouldn't notice it?

  
Eventually the wear of the day got the best of him, and he drifted off to sleep without making a decision.


	9. The Magazine

The first sensation the sniper felt when he woke up was the smell of hot suede. He snapped open his eyes to darkness and for a moment felt a twinge of panic and instinctually began to claw at his face, only to realize that his hat had fallen over his face while he was asleep.

  
He pushed It up on top of his head with the heel of his hand and blinked in the bright light in the stupefied manner that accompanies just waking up.

  
He was slouched in the driver's seat, crumpled like a forgotten rag doll that hadn't been touched in years. His knitting was tangled over the course of his lap. The  
twisted yarn reminded him of the night before—the intelligence that was actually the BLU spy, the diner, the spy getting sick and sleeping in his bed.

  
The sniper groaned softly and cracked his neck.

  
I am glad we are friends.

  
The van was warm from baking in the hot desert. Judging from the sun's position in the sky the sniper gathered it was some time around eight o'clock in the  
morning.

  
"Ah, piss."

  
He was late for work.

  
So was the spy.

  
"Eh, mate?" He called out behind him. "I think we might be late."

  
He was greeted with silence—uncharacteristic of the spy. Perhaps he was still asleep.

  
Frowning, the sniper climbed into the back of the camper.

  
The Murphy bed was still down, but had been hastily made, albeit very messily—apparently the spy wasn't one who was used to making his own bed.

  
"I hope you're not trying to trick me or something, spy." Just as the words flew out of his mouth he slipped on something smooth and papery that had been  
haphazardly sprawled on the ground. His heart thumping wildly from the unexpected stumble, he clutched onto the small, cluttered shelf that was situated above the  
bed in an attempt to get some balance; he'd forgotten how cramped the space could be when the bed was pulled out.

  
He looked down to see what had caused him to lose his footing.

  
A sick feeling began to bubble in his empty stomach.

  
The spy must have found the magazine while he was making the bed.

  
The sniper slumped down on the edge of the bed and put his forehead in the palm of his hand.

  
Yes, he could see it all playing out so clearly; the spy was about to tuck the sheet into the sides of the bed when—oh hon hon, what is this? A magazine? Shoved  
under the mattress? And like the curious, nosy bastard he was pulled it out and saw what It was, whereupon he probably tossed it on the ground in disgust while  
saying something in French, then stormed out, never to return.

  
And... Oh Christ, the spy would tell the rest of his team. It was the perfect sort of blackmail, wasn't it? They'd send out a letter to Mann Co. and RED would fire him on  
the spot—they couldn't possibly have men like him working for them. They'd tell his parents, giving them one more reason to be utterly disappointed In their oldest  
son. They'd disown him. The FBI would probably blacklist him. He wouldn't be able to get another job.

  
He'd be ruined.

  
All because of a bloody beefcake magazine he kept under his mattress.

He sat there, wringing his hands and trying to formulate some sort of plan of action. Should he just go to work anyway and pretend like nothing was wrong? He'd  
probably get chewed out something fierce for being so late, though. What if he oust skipped? No, that might look suspicious, wouldn't It?

  
He'd just go. He'd go, say that his van broke down and took awhile to get fixed. If the spy said anything about the rag he'd just... well, it technically was a fitness  
magazine, wasn't It? They sold them in pharmacies, there was technically nothing wrong with owning one.

  
He just... wanted to work on his physique. That's all. Nothing wrong about that.

  
About an hour later he was hustling into the respawn room, clutching a stitch in his side—it occurred to him that perhaps actually working on his physique might be a  
good Idea, if only to avoid getting so easily winded.

  
"Took you long enough, Stretch." The engineer was pawing through bolts and wires in his locker. "Soldier's just about ready to wring your neck."

  
"Sorry. Had a—I—my van broke down on the way..." the sniper panted, leaning against the wall.

  
"Calm down, pardner, catch your breath. You want me to take a look at it later today?" The engineer extracted a large blueprint, rolled It up, and shoved it into the  
pocket of his utility belt.

  
The engineer's sincere amiability was somewhat comforting, and it did calm the sniper down a considerable amount. "Nah, it's—it's fine. I got it fixed."

  
"If you say so." The engineer rose to his unimpressive full height and started for the exit. "I suggest you get your butt down on the field, Stretch. We're losing two for  
one."

  
The sniper had decided against bringing his usual rifle and instead had grabbed his lighter, more compact bow. If he was sitting in one position for a long amount of  
time, the spy would no doubt sneak up on him at one point and, well, that was oust something he didn't want to deal with.

  
He was running down the wooden ramp and trying to hastily yank an arrow out of the quiver something incredibly hard and heavy whacked him on the spine.  
"Ach! Christ!" He dropped the bow and arrow and slapped his hand on his aching back. "Bloody hell!"

  
The RED soldier was standing over him, wielding a gardening hoe and a grimace. "Do you think war is a joke?"

  
"Wha—? No—I—" He tried to straighten himself up, his back still aching—between this and the knife wound on his arm, this was not a good week for the sniper's  
body.

  
"Do I look like a clown to you, private?"

  
"No, no, you don't understand—"

  
"Do I have a big, red nose? Do 1 have rainbow hair? Do I lure innocent babies into my hellish circus tent of doom and devour them whole? DO I, MAGGOT?" The  
belligerent Midwesterner began to close In on the sniper.

  
"No—er—not that I know of—"

  
"THEN TELL ME WHY YOU ARE MAKING A MOCKERY OF THIS BATTLE, PRIVATE!" He spat the words into the sniper's collar bone, puffing himself out like a small bird  
trying to imitate a crane.

  
"I'm not!" the sniper snapped, his frustration rising up his throat in a thick lump. "My bloody van broke down, I couldn't—"

"THAT IS ABSOLUTELY NO EXCUSE," the soldier bellowed, smacking his gardening tool against the wall in an attempt to solidify his words. "YOU COULD HAVE  
WALKED."

  
"Oh, piss off you bloody deranged lunatic!" In a mount of intense, heightened aggravation, he shoved the loud-mouthed bastard away from him with a surprising  
amount of force. The soldier stumbled back, his helmet shifting to reveal a pair of bugged out eyes that were wrought with shock. "I am not in the mood to put up  
with your insane bullshit!" the sniper snarled, shoving his grubby finger in the soldier's face "If you say one more fucking word about my being late, so help me God I  
Will shove that bloody hoe down your throat."

  
With that, he swiped the bow and arrow up from the ground and stalked off in the opposite direction, grumbling a variety of colorful words under his breath.

  
"Lordy." The engineer wandered over to the soldier's side, watching as the sniper blundered off. "Never seen the boy so angry about anything before. Wonder  
what's got his shorts in a bunch."

  
The soldier didn't say anything. He was still standing like a deer in headlights, staring out in a daze. The engineer frowned, and then waved his hand in front of his  
fellow American's face. The man didn't even blink.

  
The Texan shrugged and walked off. He supposed that, like sentries, people sometimes short-circuited too.


	10. The Promise

Out of all the people he could disguise as, the scout was probably the spy's favorite. In truth, he hated the little chattering fucker, even If the boy's mother was rather entrancing. But he liked disguising as him because It allowed him to move faster than normal.  
  
He was aimlessly scampering around in the RED base. He didn't have much of a job to do; every so often he'd run over to the sentries and sap them, but the  
engineer was quick enough to knock the device off before it caused any damage.

  
He was especially vigilant that day, keeping an eye out for tall men with sunglasses and big guns, and making the utmost effort to avoid them.

  
Thinking about the night before made him cringe; the way he'd gotten sick, acted like a child, slept in the man's bed. Upon waking up the next morning, he had felt so disgusted with himself that he couldn't bear the face the sniper. He Just left—something he often did when faced with adversity.

  
The concept of someone seeing him that way, seeing him vulnerable, filled him with chilling humiliation.

  
He flew back to the sentries, in another attempt to sap them.

  
"Yo, Tex, what's up?" he said in his best rendition of the kid's Bostonian accent. He leaned his hand against the shivering metal sentry, slipping his other hand in his  
shoulder bag and reaching for the sapper.  
The engineer smirked at the disguised spy and raised his eyebrows over his smokey-lensed goggles. "You're especially fidgety today, boy. Why don't you skip along  
and bother someone else, hm? Or better yet, try to actually get something done?"

  
He shifted and placed both hands on the sentry, slipping the sapper down and attaching it to the bundle of wires that kept it going. "I have been working!" he  
protested. "I just gotta keep coming back to your dispenser, that freakin' BLU heavy's been poundin' my ass In. Fat son of a bitch. Jeez."

  
"Hm." The engineer bent down to fiddle with a broken tray at the bottom of the dispenser. "Oh," he glanced up just as the spy began to discretely punch in the  
countdown time for the sapper. "By the way, boy, I suggest you keep out of the sniper's way today."

  
The spy paused and pinched his lips together. "Oh? Why's that?"

  
"He's in a rotten mood. Haven't got a clue why, but he damn near bit the soldier's head off earlier today. Might have something to do with the fact that his van broke  
down."

  
"Did it?" The spy's hand drifted to his chin, which he began to stroke thoughtfully.

  
"He said that's why he was late." The engineer shrugged.

  
The spy pressed his thumb against the red, circular button in the middle of the sapper. "Well, I gotta go, Tex. See ya later, alligator."

  
The Texan grinned. "In a while, crocodile."

  
The spy hurried off and skidded around the corner, towards the basement, which was usually void of any meddling classes. Just as he began to flurry down the stairs  
he heard the buzzing and crackling of a short-circuiting sentry.

  
"SPY!"

  
The spy morphed out of his disguise and chuckled quietly under his breath. Sometimes he just needed to fuck around with an engineer to lighten his mood.

  
Still giggling, he withdrew his cigarette case and placed a smoke between his lips. He went to continue on downward, but something tugged at the bottom of his suit.  
He rolled his eyes, knowing quite well that if it had snagged on the hand rail like it had last week he may as well give up trying to look nice.

  
The tail of his jacket was pinned against the wall, having been pierced by an arrow. Immediately he grabbed it and began to hopelessly tug, trying desperately not to  
rip his suit any further. For some strange reason, cloaking hadn't even occurred to him.

"Can't run off now, can you?" The RED sniper emerged from the shadow corner across the hall, pulling another arrow out of the quiver.

  
"Oh, merde," the spy sighed and pinched his cigarette between his fingers as the sniper advanced on to him.

  
"Who did you tell?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper, grabbing the spy's jaw and squeezing his cheeks.

  
"Eshhkooshz me," the spy sputtered past the sniper's muffling grip. "' I cannwt schpeak unlessh you luff gur ofmur furss."

  
The sniper hesitated, and then released his hand. The spy flexed his mouth like he was chewing a large wad of gum and rubbed his cheeks. "Merci. Please repeat  
your question?"

  
"' Who did you tell?" the sniper repeated urgently. The thick eyebrows above his sunglasses knotted together worriedly.

  
"Tell what, may I ask?" The spy crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

  
The sniper gaped at him a moment, ignoring the muffled gunfire blazing above and outside. "The—about the—about the a magazine you found under my bed—  
The spy frowned and his eyes wandered towards the ceiling, as if he was trying to recall a long forgotten memory. When he realized what the sniper was talking  
about he let out a short snicker.

"Oh, the pornography?" He grinned toothily. "Is that what you mean?"

  
"Yeah." The sniper crossed his arms and dropped his eyes to the ground. "That." He swallowed and scuffed his boot against the ground. "I thought that's why you  
ran off."  
"Mon dieu, Lawrence, you thought I left because you are a homosexual" He withdrew the cigarette from his mouth and cackled even harder. Smoke billowed from  
his lungs and danced in the air above them. The fact that he would even venture such a thought was endearingly naive. The spy had met so many perverts along his  
travels that a plain old queer was practically a relief.

  
The word he used made the sniper visibly unsettled. "Don't—don't say that," he grumbled.

  
"But you area homosexual, are you not?" A smile curled at the corner of the spy's lips as he surveyed the sniper with a look that seemed to know every single thing  
running through the sniper's head as they spoke. It was entirely possible that he did; as a spy his job was to know what everything a person is thinking. "There IS  
only one reason a man would own a magazine like that, Lawrence."

  
The sniper's ears turned a violent shade of red. The spy continued to grin.

  
"I mean, well, it's—" The sniper protested lamely. "It's really just a fitness magazine, it's not anything—

  
"Leave the lying to me, mon ami. You are terrible at it."

  
The sniper gulped and pushed his sunglasses up his nose. He shoved his fists in the pockets of his vest and looked down at the ground, his mouth contorted into a  
frown. "I don't really look the type, do I?" he laughed weakly, although he didn't seem to actually be very amused. He swiped the heel of his hand under his nose.

  
"They rarely do." The spy sucked in a drag. "Am I the only person who knows this?"

  
The sniper nodded, still frowning at the ground.

  
"And so it shall remain."

  
The sniper looked up.

  
"I am many things, mon ami, but a gossip is not one of them." He flicked the cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his shoe. "I will carry your secret to the  
grave."


	11. The Doctor

"As it so happens," the spy continued, straightening his jacket as best he could while it was still stuck to the wall.

  
His words were cut off by a quick gasp; he disappeared in a puff of smoke with a brisk _fwoop._

  
"Mundy?"

  
People really needed to stop referring to the sniper by his given name. Wasn't this supposed to be a professional environment? Of course, there was only one  
person on his team who knew his last name besides him.

  
He sighed heavily and scratched the back of his neck with dirty fingernails, turning to face the medic.

  
The German man was looking up at him, squinting past his small round spectacles and clutching his medigun in an especially proud and pretentious manner, as if he  
was posing for a Napoleonic portrait.

  
The doctor was a strange bloke; not the kind of strange that he just brushed off as relatively harmless, like the way the demoman got blaringly drunk and popped  
grenades off the roof on Sunday nights, or understatedly strange, like the way the engineer had cut off his own hand a replaced it with a robotic one.

It was the kind of strange that honestly made him feel uneasy. It was bad enough he was a doctor, but his shined boots and crisp pants, the way he straightened himself In an  
almost militaristic way and said "Javoul," the way he licked the blood off of his fingers when he thought no one was looking.

  
The sniper recalled one day when the scout had finally asked the medic what everyone was wondering. At first he was solemn and quiet, letting the question sink in  
and get absorbed into his body. Then, when he seemed to have considered the words for a sufficient amount of time, he threw his head back and hooted in that  
uncomfortably high-pitched, hysterical way he does.

"Nazi!" he had said, removing his glasses and wiping tears from under his eyes. "Nazi!" He laughed like that for a  
good few minutes before calming down to a few giggles and a few breathless whoo-hoo-hoos, before frowning, straightening his tie, and saying, "The Nazis were  
amateurs."

  
The same man started up the stairs towards the sniper. "You were conversing with the wall, mein Teamkollege. That is not healthy.

  
"Yeah, about that..." The sniper glanced back to where the other man had been; all that was left of the spy was a strip of blue fabric still tacked to the wall.

  
"Herr Mundy." The medic started up the steps in a slow, deliberate manner. "I am... for lack of a better word, concerned about your psychological condition. You seem  
distressed."

  
The sniper glanced over his shoulder. In truth, he didn't feel very comfortable being alone with the doctor (although he couldn't quite help being but slightly amused  
by the fact the medic was concerned about the sniper's psychological well-being). "I think we should get back to the battle, doc."

  
"Ah, yes." The medic paused and raised his eyebrows, listening to the melodic lullaby of gunfire. His eyes drifted off for a moment "I forget, sometimes..." He looked  
back up at the sniper. "But you will meet up with me after, and will give you a check-up, ja?"

  
"Erm—

  
"Gut. I will see you then."

  
There wasn't much left to debate. The medic wasn't someone who was stubborn so much as he was one who just expected things to be a certain way.  
It felt like the day had ended early, but the sniper kept forgetting the fact that he had come several hours late. He didn't see the spy the rest of the day, but he was  
able to proudly boast pinning the BLU heavy to the wall four times.

  
It was the little things that could make a day better.

  
They hadn't been able to capture the designated points, which warranted another length, unnecessary, redundant, and slightly unsettling rage speech from the  
soldier. The sniper did, however, observe that It wasn't as absurdly long as his other ones and involved a lot less mocking of Australia. He could only imagine why.

He'd tried to slip out of the entrance of the RED base quickly and hope the doctor had forgotten his insistence on the check-up, but just as he was starting for the  
door with he pack slung over his shoulder, he heard the medic's fluctuating German call out, "Herr Mundy!"

  
The sniper wrinkled his nose and turned cautiously.

  
The medic was standing in the doorway of the offices, twisting a damp rag over his bare hands. His bloodied white coat had been cast aside somewhere, and a  
stethoscope dangling around his neck.

  
"Prepare for your examination." A slight smile painted his lips and he briskly led the sniper to his medical room.

  
It didn't exactly look like a typical doctor's office. It had thick red curtains, a matching rug, and the kind of furniture the sniper would expect to see the personal office  
of a politician rather than the work office of a doctor. The hard rubber table meant to be blessed with the butts of patients seemed strangely out of place and almost  
anachronistic in the doctor's keep.

  
The medic kept a neat room, which the sniper begrudgingly admired, although it was encumbered with a variety of curiosities. The largest of which, a twisted,  
misshapen being that appeared to be some sort of mockery of a human skeleton, caught his attention.

" What is that?" he asked, gesturing to the grotesque arrangement of bones.

  
"Ah!" The medic strode over to the skeleton and placed his hand on the side of its cranium, which was bubbled and mottled like melted plastic. "This is mein Liebling,  
Joseph. He is an exact copy of the Elephant Man's remains. You have heard of the Elephant Man, ja?"

  
"Yeah, but... honestly, I thought he'd look a bit more like an elephant."

  
"Mm. Ja. That's what they all say." The medic pushed his glasses up his nose with his forefinger. "But anyway," he said, snapping himself out of the momentary  
thought and starting for his desk, a large mahogany piece of furniture situated In the middle of his office. "On with ze examination." He ripped open one of the  
drawers and began to paw through files. "If you would so kindly strip down to your underwear."

  
The sniper hesitated, and then shrugged off his vest as the medic removed his file.

  
"I'd weight you, but it appears my scale has gone missing." The frown lines around his mouth deepened. "I believe the scout has stolen it again to use as a home  
plate for his childish ball games." He sighed and rolled his eyes. "But I digress. My plan is to do an assessment of your mental health, Herr Mundy, but I feel It  
necessary to give you the routine check-over, seeing as it appears you have not visited a man of medicine In..." The medic licked his finger and flipped through the  
pages as the sniper yanked off his boots. "Seven years?" He pressed his lips together and gave the sniper a disapproving glare.

  
"Been busy." The sniper fumbled with popping open the buttons of his red shirt.

  
"Not many practitioners in the bush, I suppose?" He pulled on his rubber gloves, giving them a snap for good measure when he let go.

  
"Not really. Kind of had to make do." It was true—there had been days where he wouldn't see another person for days on end, let alone a doctor. He'd grown quite  
used to used taking care of himself in the event of danger. Besides, there was something kind of rewarding about being able to fend for yourself. Slicing off an infected  
pinkie toe had seemed absolutely horrifying and utterly nauseating when he'd had to do It after it had been bitten by a tiny, yet disturbingly poisonous spider, but in  
retrospect it was actually pretty cool. He supposed.

  
He sidled himself on the table and kicked off the trousers that had bunched around his ankles, and then folded them with the rest of the clothes. He removed his  
socks, too, mainly because wearing just socks and underwear felt strange. The pinkie-toe-less nub at the end of his right foot would have winked at him if it could.  
The medic walked around the desk over to him and stuck the stethoscope in his ears. "The glasses, too, bitte."

The sniper slipped off his sunglasses and placed them with the rest of his clothes.

  
The medic approached him, looked down, and grinned. "You have little kittens on your underwear, Herr Mundy."

  
"They're not kittens. They're koalas."

  
His smile faded. "Hm." The sniper supposed that the medic was not a koala person. "Speaking of making do..." The doctor's eyes rested on the handkerchief, still tied  
around his arm, stiff with dried blood. He undid the knot and unraveled the light fabric, the brown blot of blood becoming thicker with each removal of an outer layer.

  
The wound was a mottled dark red, still raw, but just starting to scab over. "You do not trust me to heal you?" he asked, his voice heavy with disdain.

  
"No, just—I didn't want to bother you," the sniper said as the medic held the cloth up to the light to observe it. "Had the handkerchief on me, thought I could just—

  
The doctor swiftly produced a tongue depressor out of nowhere and tossed the handkerchief aside. Its sudden appearance was almost frightening.

  
"Say ah'. " The sniper barely had a chance to open his mouth before the medic shoved the stick inside. He grabbed the man's wrist and jerked it away, gagging.

  
"Slow down, will you?" he demanded, rubbing his throat. "Crikey."

  
The medic carried on with poking various instruments in all the orifices above the sniper's neck, saying nothing but the occasional, "Hm."

  
He proceeded to press the stethoscope against seemingly random points on the sniper's chest and back, instructing him to breathe deeper than he felt was possible.

  
"You have a fast heartbeat," he observed. "Nothing to be concerned about. Just faster than usual. You are nervous, Herr Mundy?"

  
"No," the sniper lied. "It's just been a long day."

  
With that, the medic stepped back like an artist examining his work. He removed the stethoscope from his ears. "You seem to be in, eh, decent physical shape  
despite living such a sedentary lifestyle, although would like to do some blood work. We shall schedule that for another day, though. In the mean time—on with your  
brain. "'


	12. The Forest

The man groaned and yanked at his collar. He really did need to lose weight—sweat was building up around his neck  
from the tight hold of his formal wear. Granted, this wasn't a normal night by any means.

  
He could feel the weight of the small package, wrapped in brown paper, pressing against his heart.

  
He tried to calm himself by reaching to the radio and fiddling with the dial. Neon lights fizzed through the air and glittered in the reflection of his car windshield.

  
Horns flew in and out of his hearing range with swiftness, screaming to be heard but passing by before they could be truly absorbed.

  
It would be simple enough; drive to the RED, base, drop the package off at the RED base, drive home, wait for his paycheck, then live the rest of his life happily ever  
after. Maybe he and the family could finally take that trip to Italy like they'd been talking about all these years.

  
It probably would've been a nice trip, if he'd made it to the base.

  
Unfortunately for the man, he was stalled at a most inopportune time; in front of a railroad, waiting for a passing train to slice through the chilled night air. The  
moment the train began to hustle by, something slapped Itself over his eyes. He barely had time to realize It was a hand, to smell the faint scent of cologne, to hear  
the words "Dormez Bien" tickling his ear—the masked assailant sliced his throat open faster than the brain had time to comprehend the situation.

  
Blood spilled down his chest. The man slumped against the steering wheel, the useless hunk of meat that was once his head falling flat on the horn. The long, wailing  
beep rang out after the departing train.

  
The spy sighed, holding his arms out to the light of the moon and observing the speckled dots of red on the sleeve of his suit jacket. "You got blood on my suit," he  
groaned, flaring his nostrils In annoyance.

  
He gingerly snaked his hand into the dead man's dinner jacket and pawed around until he found what he was looking for—a small package, roughly the size of a ring  
box, wrapped in brown paper and twine. He held It for a moment, twisting It and observing It. In truth, he didn't quite care what was In the box. He just liked the way  
it was wrapped. It brought back a comforting memory, of being little and seeing that one, single present sitting at the foot of his bed, wrapped in brown paper and  
twine. Every Christmas, even the tough ones.

  
Maman.

  
Pushing the memories down into the bottom of his gut, he tucked the parcel safe within one of the many hidden pockets in his suit, and proceeded to clean up the  
scene of the crime.

  
First off, bloody knives were one of his pet peeves. Obviously there was no way to avoid that, but the way some people never bother to clean their weapons was  
just so barbaric. The spy removed a handkerchief from his pocket (he had many handkerchiefs) and swiped the blade until he could see himself grinning in it.

  
As for the body, well, that would be difficult. The spy was used to bloody bodies, but hefty ones... well, not so much.

  
The first thing to do was spray the body down. It was a small blue sprits bottle from Mann Co. that he had been issued, specifically for the purpose of covering the  
stench of rotting bodies. It lasted up to three months, according to the label on the back.

  
He didn't ask questions.

  
The stuff had a musky, almost cotton-ball sort of scent to it upon first being sprayed, but the smell quickly evaporated into nothing. The spy made a mental note to  
apply more cologne, though, just In case.

  
He removed the extra cloaking watch he had wrapped around his wrist and attached it to the dead man. His immediate disappearance almost made the job feel  
halfway done.

  
The spy proceeded to cloak himself as well, and then breathlessly struggle to drag the body out of the car and towards the wooded area that extended off of the  
road. Past a hilly mound, the woods fell off Into a steep cliff. The spy grinned and wiped beaded sweat from his forehead. Perfect.

He couldn't see the body as it tumbled down the hill, but he could hear it.

  
It wouldn't be found. The cloaking device would keep the body invisible, and the spray would keep animals and nosey passerby away—by the time both wore off he'd  
be bones, buried underneath a layer of damp, fallen leaves.

  
The spy, still standing by the edge of the forest, dabbed a bit of cologne on his wrists, then tore off his mask and stuffed it within his suit, simultaneously withdrawing  
his cigarette case.  
There was something hypnotically peaceful about dark forests. Maybe it was because the spy was raised in a bustling City. Maybe it was the fact that he was  
inexplicably drawn to things like forests In the night; dark and quiet but full of stories—stories that may never be told.

  
The spy returned to the car, jingling the keys he had pilfered from the body. He settled comfortably into the driver's seat as if he was the rightful owner, easing the  
key into the ignition and stroking the gas with his foot.

  
He started along down the road, continuing what the other man had begun.

  
The spy switched the radio station, searching for something bearable. Not many people listened to Charles Trénet or Edith Piaf these days. Understandable. But they  
could at least compensate by not airing shit on the radios and Insisting it was music.

  
_"' Well my pad is very messy_   
_And there's whiskers on my chin_   
_And I'm all hung up on music_   
_And I always play to win_   
_I ain't got no time for lovin'_   
_Cause my time is all used up_   
_Just to sit around creatin '_   
_All that groovy kind of stuff"_

  
He paused. There was something terribly familiar about the song. Something both exciting, yet slightly unsettling. He couldn't quite put his finger on why.-

  
_"' I'm a man_   
_Yes I am_   
_and I can't help_   
_but love you so. "_

  
Oh. That's right. The spy blew smoke through his nose.

  
Lawrence.

  
Against his better judgment, he let the song continue.

  
The more the spy learned about the sniper, the more intrigued by him he was. And he could even almost feel as though he could relate to the Australian, as strange  
as It seemed. They were drifters, solitude killers, and sort of set aside from the rest of the team. There was always that distance—the spy liked to think it was  
because he was too refined for his colleagues, but It was possible that he went out of his way to avoid getting close to them.

  
The spy was certainly social, but he didn't get close to people. It wasn't good, getting close to people.

  
The package in his jacket felt heavy against his chest.

  
No, trusting people, loving people, putting faith in people... it was a foolish thing to do. It resulted in disappointment and pain.

The spy didn't even quite care about the fact that they were meant to be enemies—he never saw things black and white the way people like the soldier did. There  
are no 'good guys' and 'bad guys'. The spy himself was neither good nor bad. He had done some good things and some bad things. But he didn't label himself to a  
certain side. He really just tried to focus on what was best for him. An egocentric point of view, he could admit that. But at least he was aware of it.

  
No, it wasn't a problem of loyalty. It was a problem of closeness.

  
The car, which he had come to realize was a relatively new Lincoln with a delightfully smooth ride, hit a rock in the middle of the road. It jolted along with the spy's  
stomach.

  
Remembering the day before was still humiliating.

  
He'd already allowed himself to vulnerable, to expose his raw underbelly and humble himself to the concept of familiarity. It felt almost nauseatingly shameful in  
retrospect, but at the time It had felt comforting and relieving.

  
The song ended and the spy drove on.

  
He didn't quite know where he was going.


	13. The Sky

The sniper wasn't quite sure what had happened. All he knew was that one moment he was lying down with the doctor slowly counting backwards, and the next he was standing in front of the replicated Elephant Man's skeleton, holding it tenderly as if they were about to waltz.

  
He stared at the misshapen skull of a moment as it waited expectantly for him to twirl it like a blushing bride. Gingerly, he shrugged the boney arms off of him and  
turned to find the medic sitting cross-legged in his desk chair, adamantly taking notes. When he realized the sniper was staring at him he frowned.

  
"I suppose the hypnosis stopped working, then," he sighed. He picked up his glasses, which had been resting, folded, on top of a pile of books, and slipped them on  
his face. "I must admit, that's a bit frustrating. I would have thought It would last longer. Of course, I've never hypnotized anyone before. You are my, how do you  
say... guinea pig?" The medic grinned toothily—there was something unsettling about his smile. It seemed as If he had more teeth than the average human being.

  
Sharks had three rows of teeth. Perhaps the medic was half-shark?

  
That would make a lot of sense, the sniper thought to himself.

  
The medic continued, skimming over his notes. "I would like to experiment with some electroshock therapy." Failing to notice the sniper's jaw drop to the floor, he  
glanced down at his watch. "Ah, Scheiße! If I stay any later my wife will lock me out of the house again. As much as would love to try electrocuting you, Herr Mundy,  
I have no desire breaking into my own home again for the fourth time this week." He chuckled deeply in the back of his throat. "We can try that another time, hm?"

  
"Erm." The sniper wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect of any more experimentation from the medic. The doctor had made it quite clear that he had very little  
training In psychology; his knowledge being based mostly off of skimming Freud's published works. After the sniper had gotten dressed, the doctor spent an  
uncomfortably long time questioning him about his dreams, trying to explain the latent content but just continually leading back to the insistence that the sniper had  
an oedipal complex. "Hey doc?"

  
The doctor looked up from his desk with raised eyebrows.

  
"Why exactly did you want to do all this, anyway?" Normally the sniper wouldn't question the medic's motives, but he couldn't help but find it strange that the man  
would so suddenly take such an intense Interest in his mental health. Typically the medic spent his time trotting along behind the heavy, or pestering the pyro about  
agreeing to a full body scan, or just locking himself In his office and doing god knows what. The demoman mentioned sometimes that he could hear the doctor  
laughing along behind the closed door, but the demoman also claimed to have made love with a giant sea serpent, so the sniper learned to take what he said with a  
grain of salt. "I mean, did someone say something to you?"

  
"Ah." The medic sighed, sending the sniper a tired glance as he went to the coat rack for his jacket. "You've caught on. I was hoping we could make this casual." He  
shrugged the jacket on over his waistcoat. "It was the engineer who Insisted examine you. He was concerned about you today."

  
"Oh, that?" The fact the engineer had worried about him was somewhat touching, but a little bothersome. "Nah, I was just pissed because my van broke down this  
morning, it wasn't anything—"

  
"So I was told. Well, he felt that you needed attention. Like a good doctor, I complied. I am just doing my job, Herr Mundy." He reached for the light switch and  
withdrew his keys from his pocket. "Walk with me to my car, ja?"

  
The sniper stuffed his hands in his pockets and followed the medic out of the building. The sniper usually left as soon as he could, so locking up and turning off the  
lights was strange to him. He could imagine It was routine for the medic, who always seemed to be the last person to leave for the day.

  
The medic had a nice car, a dark green 1966 Porsche 911. It seemed like doctors always had nice cars.

  
The night had started to begin earlier and earlier as the days carried on, and with it the air came colder and colder. The sniper tensed his shoulders as he and the  
medic crossed the parking lot.

  
He felt like he was supposed to say something.

  
"So, you've got a wife?"

  
"Ja." The vaguest wisp of white breath curled from his nose. "Although, at times it seems more like she is the one who has got me." He laughed at his own joke.

"Got any kids?" The sniper didn't mean to prod, but there was part of him that was curious about the medic's life outside of work. He often had troubling imaging his  
teammates being normal people, having lives and families and interests besides ruthless slaughter.

  
"My wife is barren," the medic told him coldly.

  
"Oh." The sniper looked down at his feet. "I'm sorry. That's awful."

  
"Awful?" The medic snorted. "I cannot express how relieved I was when I learned she was sterile. I never wanted children. They are horrible creatures."

  
"Oh, well—they're not so bad, kids. I've got a niece. She's sweet." He hadn't seen Sheila in a long time, now that he thought about it. Not since last Christmas. That  
whole day had been a terribly awkward ordeal, especially when his father threw the figgy pudding at him.

  
"You are not married, Herr Mundy?"

  
The sniper felt his ears grow warm. "No. I'm a bachelor."

  
"Good." The medic nodded. They approached his car. "I suggest you keep it that way."

  
With a curt "Good night", the medic drove off until his car was a puttering speck down the endless stretch of empty road. The sniper wondered if he'd make it in time  
before his wife locked him out of the house.

  
Hypnosis, electroshock therapy that's the kind of stuff they did to crazy people. People who ranted and screamed and drooled in asylums, all locked up in straight  
jackets.

  
Whenever the sniper thought of insanity, he thought of that guy from Dracula, the one who eats flies and has huge, bugged out eyes and grins in this way that  
makes you feel almost sick. The fact that people could get crazy like that was so... creepy.

  
Those were the types that needed headshrinkers, weren't they? The sniper certainly wasn't a babbling lunatic. He was pretty normal, far as normal went.

  
But then again, he killed people for a living. And he collected his piss in jars. And he was, as the spy had so bluntly put it, a homosexual.

  
Perhaps he was insane.

  
He climbed into his truck and patted his vest for a pack of cigarettes. The van shivered to a start, its bright yellow headlights simmering two round moons on the  
otherwise blackened earth.

  
He lit a strike-anywhere match on his thumb.

  
Of course. Only a mad man would become friends with an enemy.

  
He frowned.

  
He and that spy weren't really friends, though. Friendship didn't work like that. Of course, the sniper never was a particularly social person, even when he was a kid.  
He had acquaintances, sure, but never those sorts of friends that last for years and write you letters and listen to your problems and shit. So perhaps the problem  
was that he wasn't quite sure how this sort of thing worked.

  
I am glad we are friends.

  
The sniper blew wisps of smoke into the air, cranking down his window and letting a cool breeze drift into the van. He thought back to the spy curled up on his bed,  
and had a sudden desire to see him there again, to lie down next to him, to—

The sniper groaned, swallowing himself down into his gut. He switched the radio on for the purpose of distraction.

  
_"' I'm a man_   
_Yes I am_   
_and I can't help_   
_but love you so. "_

  
His cigarette between his forefinger and middle finger, he clutched the steering wheel somberly, his foot hovering over the pedal. Hot air danced out from underneath  
the van as It stayed situated in that one spot, waiting for the sniper to ease It Into motion. But he didn't.

  
Oh, God.

  
He slumped back into his seat and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  
He was just tired. It was a long day, and he was tired, and confused, and worn out from the battle and the medic and.-  
he'd messed around with his head. Did something funny to It.

  
He wasn't thinking straight.

  
_"' I'm a man_   
_Yes I am_   
_and I can't help_   
_but love you so" _

  
The sniper turned off the car and sat for a moment, listening to the crickets. Then he climbed out of the van.  
and maybe, when the medic hypnotized him,

  
The sniper had been to big cities and he'd never liked them. When asked when he was never quite able to give a proper answer, because it seemed like there were  
so many reasons, but the biggest one was the nighttime. In the bush, he'd gotten used to still nights. There was something inexplicably peaceful about lying down  
and staring up. In big cities, you can't see the stars. Too many lights and sounds and people; they block all the beauty of the world and smother it like a blanket  
soaked in thorns.

  
But when you're all alone, and it's just you and the sky, life slows down. Things feel better for awhile. You can breathe.  
The sniper climbed up the ladder, to the top of his van, and for the first time in a long time, sat down and stared at the stars.


	14. The Kiss

The sniper pulled the arrow back, one eye squeezed shut, his aim pointed towards the entrance of the BLU base.

  
Enemies were pouring out left and right, but they were especially swift. Or maybe he was just having a slow day. Either way, he was having a considerable amount  
of difficulty getting any kills.

  
If only the BLU heavy would stay still—wait—yes—he almost had him

  
"Stretch?"

  
The arrow pierced the heavy's hat. The gigantic Russian looked up at the new addition to his headwear, emitted a belly-booming laugh from the bottom of his gut,  
and then continued to decimate his RED enemies.

  
The sniper sighed, lowered his bow, and turned to see the engineer grinning at him; his eyebrows raised high above his smokey-lensed goggles. In his arms he held  
a large toolbox.

  
"Mind givin' me a hand, pardner?" He grunted and shifted the weight of the toolbox. "I want to set up a sentry farther down the way so we can take 'em by surprise  
when the cart turns the corner. It'll only take a second."

  
The sniper glanced at the swarming BLUs as they danced around the cart, knowing full well that he'd be needed to take them out and prevent them from  
moving any further.

  
Then again, the engineer had always been a good guy. And even though the check-up with the medic was... relatively unnecessary, he couldn't ignore the fact that  
he had only asked because he was concerned. Helping him for a bit was the least he could do.

  
The engineer trotted before him in his typical bowlegged fashion. Dust curled underneath each footfall. The sniper hustled after him as he pulled another bow from  
his quiver.

  
The sniper knew this was an opportune time to mention the check-up, but he wasn't quite sure what to say about it. That the check-up went well, thank you very  
much? That would be a bald-headed lie, though. That the engineer should piss off and mind his own business? No, that was too nasty. That he appreciated the  
concern but he really didn't need any head-shrinking? But... what If he did need head-shrinking?

  
The engineer didn't say a word about any of it, and the sniper was beginning to believe the medic may have lied to him.

  
They turned the corner and the engineer led him up a winding wooden staircase, to a cramped, windowless loft. The sniper frowned as the engineer dropped the  
toolbox with a knee-quaking thud.

  
"You think this is a good place to build a sentry, Truckie?"

  
"Of course not," he said in a telling French accent as he removed a cigarette case from the pocket of his overalls. "Especially seeing as I have no idea how to build  
one.

  
The sniper resisted the urge to slap himself on the forehead as the BLU spy morphed back into his usual appearance.

  
"My apologies for the long expedition, bushman," he said matter-of-factly, lighting his cigarette. "I wanted to be sure we could speak in private."

  
"About what?" The sniper's Adam's apple bobbed.

  
The spy sighed heavily, his gaze drifting to the floor for a moment, before glancing back up at the sniper. "We cannot continue this. This... this game of teasing and  
flirting... like schoolchildren. We have jobs to fulfill."

  
"I don't know what-"

"You know exactly what I mean, Lawrence," the spy snapped icily, curling his nose and baring his teeth in an almost animalistic manner. "You are a not an idiot and  
you must stop pretending that you are one." The words were as sharp as his balisong, which had been slipped out of his jacket and was now open in his hand. "We  
cannot continue to ignore the fact that we are on separate teams. We are meant to be enemies." He began to stalk towards the sniper like a cat hunting a bird.  
"Lawrence, I'm afraid that I must kill you. Desolee."

  
He pounced.

  
The sniper was accustomed to quick reflexes, but had he been anyone else he may have just stood there and let the spy plunge the knife into his stomach.

  
He knocked the spy away with a swift elbow—the knife that had been aimed for his throat grazed his cheek, and a river of blood ran down to his jaw.

  
"What the bloody hell are you doing?" he yelled, raising his hand to his cheek and touching the gash.

  
The spy clung against the creaky wall of the loft, his gloved hand wrapped around the blood stained knife. He stared at the sniper with an almost pitiful expression,  
his mouth twisted into an open frown.

  
"Since when do you give a rat's ass about team loyalty?" the sniper asked, looking down at the blood on his hand. "I mean, you of all people?"

  
The spy lowered his gaze to the ground, and let the balisong slip from his fingers and clatter to the floor. He slumped against the wall and slid down, streaks of dust  
staining his otherwise flawless suit jacket. He held his fingertips tightly to his temples, as If trying to contain a horrible demon that would be released If he took his  
hands away.

  
"Killing you is more difficult that I was hoping it would be," he mumbled.

  
"You're not trying very hard." The sniper wiped his bloody cheek with his sleeve. "Sitting on the floor won't stop my heart beating, that's for sure."

  
"I don't want to kill you."

  
"So don't."

  
"It's not that simple, Lawrence." The spy sighed, glancing up at the sniper. Noticeable half-moons of gray streaked underneath his eyes, and his skin hung loose and  
haggard underneath the balaclava. It was the look of someone who hadn't slept. "By becoming close to you I have started down a road that splits in two. The  
easiest path IS to pretend we never spoke and continue on with our ruthless bloodshed."

  
"What's the hard path?" the sniper asked, already knowing the answer in the pit of his stomach.

  
The spy dropped his hands from his head and let them fall onto his lap. He was quiet for a moment. He seemed to be holding an extensive, heated debate within his  
mind. His face stark, he stared intently at the ground. Every so often he would swallow and his Jaw would shift—the sniper noticed that the spy hadn't shaved that  
morning.

  
"Lawrence," he said after a moment. "Please answer me this question honestly

  
"Alright," the sniper said in a cautious tone. His hands were stuffed in his pockets.

  
"Do you find me attractive?" He continued to gaze at the floor even after the question had been asked.

  
The sniper felt his ears grow hot. Warmth rose up his neck and he sucked in a deep breath of air. "Um—well, I—"

  
The spy snorted softly, a grinning pulling on his lips. "So easily flustered. Funny, how such a deadly man can get as bashful as a schoolgirl when faced with romance.  
It's charming, really, in a quaint sort of way." He pulled himself up off the floor and idly swept dust off of his jacket.

The sniper swallowed a hard lump in his throat. He wasn't too keen on being called a schoolgirl, but he didn't dwell on the teasing words for long.

  
The spy waltzed toward the sniper and grabbed the collar of his shirt with an almost vicious sort of swipe. He paused for a moment, his eyes studying the look of  
surprise and suspiciousness on the sniper's face, as if he were reading a thought-provoking piece of literature. After he seemed to be satisfied with whatever it was  
that he found, he leaned in and kissed him.

  
The sniper could feel his watch wrapped around his wrist, and he could hear his heart thumping wildly within the confines of his ribcage, but it seemed like one of  
those moments in which time didn't exist. At first his hands flailed as If he were on a rocking ship that refused to be steady, but like a sailor gets his sea legs he felt  
himself calm down, and allow the rhythm to sink in.

  
After an immeasurable amount of time they broke apart and came up for air, their foreheads touching slightly as hot, panting breath curled into the opposite mouth.  
"Is that the first time you kissed a man?" the spy whispered to the sniper, their eyes locking. His fingers crawled up the sniper's neck and ran through his hair.

  
The sniper nodded, gulping. He had momentarily forgotten how to speak.

  
"Rest assured it will not be the last, Kookaburra." The spy, leaning back with an almost regretful expression, swiftly disappeared into nothingness, flourished by  
smoke wisps that climbed to the ceiling and dissipated in the light of the sun.

  
The sniper grasped at the empty air. That fleeting moment of fantastic passion had come and gone much too soon.

  
Quick, jackrabbit footsteps scampered up the steps.

  
"There you are, Legs!" the scout yelled shrilly, racing into the room and swinging his baseball bat as he danced on his tiptoes. "Jesus, man, we've been looking all  
over for ya! Don't do any of that campin' bullshit today, we need you down here. Seriously, man, the cart's almost made It." He stopped his hyperactive chatter for a  
moment and frowned. "What happened to your face?"

  
The sniper, still surrounded by a hazy cloud, touched his face and felt the dried blood.

  
"Whatever, it doesn't matter. Just hurry up, man. Stop fucking around up here, we need ya." The scout turned on his heel and skidded back down the stairs.  
The sniper gingerly picked his bow up from the ground and followed after the scout. It felt as though he was walking through a swamp of molasses.

  
Focusing through the battle was going to prove to be very difficult.


	15. The Hickey

It was RED's third loss in a row, and the sniper was quite positive that the fact he wasn't exactly trying his hardest could have something to do with that.  
  
He spent the battle walking in a daze, as if he had just woken up from a year-long nap. Everything he did seemed ten times slower than what everyone around him  
did; got his ass blown sky-high a couple of times. He was undoubtedly the worst player on the team that day.

  
It felt a bit like trying to run through water, this feeling of an oppressive tide that was surrounding him and wouldn't let him clear his head.

  
Just when he felt as though he was actually able to focus again and pierced an arrow right through the BLU pyro's (presumable) eyeball, he and the spy bumped into  
each other running head on through the barren catwalk overhead.

  
There was a brief, yet heart-pounding moment of locked eyes running thoughts that would never be spoken before the spy mumbled, "There is no one to see," and  
knocked the sniper up against the wall, sneakily avoiding the shattered glass window just to the right. They kissed almost hungrily, the spy working his way down  
and nuzzling his nose In the nest of the sniper's neck. The bow had slipped out of the sniper's fingers and clattered to the floor.

  
Unbeknownst to the sniper, the BLU heavy and medic trotted across down below, taking their sweet time as they guided along the cart.  
Had the sniper been paying any attention whatsoever, he probably could have killed them both then and there and led RED to victory.

  
But he didn't.

  
After being chewed out by the soldier ("MY DEAD GRANDMOTHER'S SEX DRIVE HAS MORE PASSION THAN THE FIGHT YOU GAVE TODAY"), who savored punching  
creative Insults to people far more than any sane person should, the sniper really just wanted to leave.

  
Drive off in the van.

  
Listen to the radio.

  
Clear his head.

  
Let everything steep in.

  
But he couldn't, because just when he had packed up and started for the door, someone grabbed the back of his vest and dragged him down the hall to his office.  
The heavy, who was sitting on the bench In the lobby, twiddling his thumbs, chuckled and winked at the sniper as he disappeared around the corner.

  
"You almost forgot about our session, Herr Mundy," the medic cooed, drawing the shades to the window in the middle of the door and locking it behind him. "You  
have more Important things on your mind? Or you just have no desire to remember?" He turned, holding his hands behind his back and wearing a dark expression.

  
"I'm sorry, doc, just wasn't thinking." The sniper removed his hat and sighed. His shoulders slumped exhaustedly; if the doctor was going to make him stay late  
again and do crazy tests, he may have to break his no-caffeine rule in order to stay conscious. "Erm," he ventured after a moment's thought. "So you think we could  
maybe reschedule this to next week?"

  
Or next year?

  
Or never

  
"Nein." The medic stalked over to his desk and began to dig through a thick stack of manila folders. "I will be busy. Monday I will be performing an open heart  
transplant In the operating theater at Karloff Hospital. Tuesday the woman is making me go out to dinner with her. Wednesday I am taking Archimedes to a dove  
racing competition. Thursday and Friday are my personal research days. I cannot change my busy schedule just because you do not feel like it today, Mundy." He  
extracted a fat folder and dropped on the desk with a thud. "Besides, I am Just going to try a bit of electroshock therapy. It will not be long. Well, that's what I've  
been told, at least."

"Does... does that hurt?" the sniper asked tentatively as the doctor briskly marched to an equally mahogany cabinet behind his desk.

  
"God, let's hope so," the medic answered softly, pausing in his pursuit to find the kit. With his back turned, the sniper couldn't see him grinning. "Ah! Here it is!"

  
The medic turned, clutching a heavy wooden box that looked a bit like a record player. "Lie down on the couch, bitte."

  
The sniper was a bit too long for the red leather couch that leaned against the shrouded window; his head was propped up on one side of the arm rest and his feet  
dangled a good several Inches beyond the other. He placed his hat on his chest as the medic crouched down beside him.

  
"I received this as a gift two years ago. This is the first time I've gotten the chance to use it." He snapped open the clasps of the little square trunk. "Oh, I am so  
excited! "

  
Inside, the entire weight of the trunk was taken up by thick black machinery, dotted with knobs and buttons and dials. It seemed a bit like a radio. Extending from a  
wire was what appeared to be a pair of white earmuffs, which was tucked in a velveteen pouch along with a brown rubber mouth guard.

  
The medic plucked the mouth guard out and waved it over the sniper's head. "Open wide," he instructed, trying to hide his feverish anticipation underneath a raspy  
drawl that merely accentuated his... quirkiness.

  
"What's that for?" the sniper asked, jerking his head away as the medic went to shove it in his mouth.

  
The medic paused for a moment, staring at it. "I believe it is so you do not bite your tongue."

  
"Oh—" The medic took advantage of the sniper's open mouth and shoved the guard in forcefully. The sniper gagged a bit on the unexpected wad of rubber now  
pressing down on his tongue.

  
The medic held the earmuffs over the sniper and was about to slip them on but paused, squinting at something near the sniper's throat.  
"Hm," he mumbled, pushing the collar of the sniper's shirt aside and leaning in closer.  
"Wrrrt?" The sniper tried to crane his neck back to see.

  
"You have a little mark on your neck. Strange place to get a bruise, Herr Mundy."

  
The sniper's eyes widened slightly as he realized where the bruise was from, but the medic didn't dwell on it.

  
It was very odd to think that he might have to start making an active effort to hide hickeys from now on.

  
The earmuff-things actually clamped over his temples, not his ears, and the medic twisted something at the top to tighten them. The pressure was on the very cusp  
of aching.

  
"Scheiße," the sniper heard the medic grumble as he stared up at the ceiling. Drool was beginning to wet itself around the corners of his mouth from the guard. "Only  
130 volts? For 20 seconds? Who is the Fraulein that created this?"

  
Switches were switched and knobs were turned. The sniper squirmed uncomfortably on the couch.

  
"Are you ready, Herr Mundy?" the medic asked, his voice breathy and saturated with glee.

  
"Urr drrrrnt trrrrnnk shrr," the sniper managed to choke past the mouth guard. Despite his anxiety he couldn't help but notice the fact that he'd sounded strangely  
similar to the pyro.

" Vunderbarr!" the medic exclaimed, neither noticing nor caring that the sniper was obviously not ready.

  
It didn't matter either way, because just as the medic reached for the button to initiate the convulsive flow, there was a knee-shattering knock on the door.

  
"Ach!" The medic threw his hands up in frustration. The sniper sat up and wriggled the rubber guard out from his mouth, wiping the string of spit that fell on his chin.  
He could see a monstrously sized silhouette through the curtained window.

  
"DOCTOR!" bellowed the voice of the heavy as he began to pound on the door again.

  
The doctor swung open the door, resting his hand on his hip and squinting at the heavy like a disapproving mother. "What do you want?"

  
"You must come quickly, Doctor," the heavy implored, clasping his enormous paws together and shaking them earnestly. "The demoman's head is stuck in toilet!"

  
The medic gave a disgruntled sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Again?"

  
"Oa." The heavy nodded desperately, his eyebrows contorted worriedly.

  
"Alright, alright," the medic turned and headed the medigun propped up against his desk. "I'm coming."

  
"I Will run ahead to make sure he is safe!" the heavy told him as footfalls bounded against the linoleum floor of the hallways.

  
The doctor stumbled after him, hastily shrugging his medigun backpack on over his shoulders.

  
The sniper shifted his feet from the couch to the floor and carefully tucked the saliva-covered mouth guard back into the velveteen pouch. He tugged the earmuffs off  
of his head and slipped them into the pouch as well. Then he fell back against the sofa and sighed, relieved that his therapy session had been so conveniently  
interrupted.

  
He pushed his fingers under his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes.

  
"You're welcome."

  
The spicy smell of tobacco wafting through the air told him who it was before he even looked. The sniper brought his hand away from his eyes and saw the BLU spy  
leaning against the doorway, a cigarette tucked between his teeth.

  
The sniper felt his chest tighten, warmth seeping throughout. "You did that?"

  
"I'm assuming you don't know much about electroshock treatment, Lawrence, and neither does your medic." The spy plucked the cigarette from his mouth and  
walked into the room. "It is not pleasant. I wanted to spare you the pain."

  
"Thanks mate," the sniper said, feeling honestly very grateful. He peered past the spy. "How did you get in here?"

  
"Oh, I've been here for hours. I locked your heavy weapons guy in the basement and came in disguised as him. By the way, I winked at you in the lobby but you  
never winked back."

  
The sniper got the sudden image of the heavy slamming his fists against the basement door, hollering for help. "You can't do that," he said, frowning.

  
"But I already did," the Frenchman responded, smirking. "Besides, it's not like he's going to starve."

  
The sniper crossed his arms, still frowning.

"Alright, alright, I am sorry. Locking the fat man in the basement and pretending to be him was wrong of me. I will never do it again as long as I live."

  
"I don't believe you," the sniper sighed. "But I don't feel like arguing with you about it, either."

  
The spy walked a few more steps foreword and stuck out his hand. "Shall we depart before your medic realizes the demoman is already halfway across town by  
now?"

  
"SCHEIßEC!"came a piercing, yet slightly muffled screech from the floor beneath them. "HEAVY! YOU DUMMKOPF I WILL STRANGLE YOU!"

  
"I think he just did."


	16. The Doppelganger

"Go to your car," the spy said, flipping his cigarette case after he helped the sniper up off the couch. Below, they could just barely hear the furious thumping of the medic's boots as the German marched upstairs. "I will take care of the medic."

The sniper's frown deepened. "You're going to kill him, aren't you?"

"Is that a problem?"

The sniper wasn't particularly fond of the medic, but that didn't mean he wanted anyone killing him off. "Well, kinda. Yeah. He's on my team."

The spy smirked at the sniper. "D'accord. I will not kill the sadist Nazi, if It means so much to you." He pressed his gloved fingertip against the hidden button within his cigarette case. "I have a better Idea, anyway."

The sniper stumbled backwards over his feet in surprise as the wisps of smoke dispersed to reveal a mirror image of him. The disguised spy grinned toothily at the sniper's shock and shoved his hands playfully in the pockets of his pants—or rather, the sniper's pants. How on earth did he get his pants?

"Crikey, that's—that's crazy," the sniper sputtered, gaping at the spy and pushing his hat back so he could scratch the top of his head in disbelief. "Is that really what I look like?" He wandered to the side, curious as to what he looked like from another angle.

"Oui." The spy didn't bother mimicking his voice, which the sniper was thankful for; looking at himself was weird enough. He couldn't imagine adding listening to himself on top of that. "I suggest you go to your van, Lawrence."

"Er, yeah.-." The sniper nodded as he started backwards for the door, his eyes still glued on the other him.

"Wait for me, Lawrence," the spy ordered him softly, sitting back down on the couch as the sniper turned the corner. The sniper subconsciously shoved his hands in his pockets the same way the disguised spy had before. Outside, the sky hung heavy with saturated clouds. A cool, wet breeze tickled the back of his neck and kissed his cheeks. It would probably rain soon. On his way to the van, it occurred to the sniper that he and the spy theoretically could have just left together without any disguises needed. So why did the spy...? He stopped in his tracks halfway across the parking lot, a horrible feeling simmering in his gut. He could kick himself. Of course. Never trust a spy. No doubt the bloody French bastard was lying, using the sniper as a tool to get into the base and steal their documents and kill everyone and Christ, he'd been too caught up In wallowing in his queer little infatuation with the man that he hadn't even realized it.

The spy didn't.- the spy wasn't interested in the sniper. He was just using him because he knew he was stupid and gullible enough to be tricked into trusting him. In a sudden downpour of frustration and self-disgust, the sniper turned on his heel and started running back towards the entrance of the base. He skidded to a halt at the door and swung It open, but something pulled at the back of his vest and wouldn't let him budge.

"The medic will be very confused if you walk back into the base, Lawrence," the spy whispered, resting his chin on the sniper's shoulder from behind. "Especially seeing as you oust demanded an end to these therapy sessions by punching him In the face." The spy ended the sentence with a pleased chuckle.

The sniper slapped his hand against his face. "I told you not to hurt him!" he grumbled into his palm.

"Ahhem, you told me not to kill him." The spy's hand snaked around the sniper's waist. "He is most certainly not dead. Dead people can not scream and roll on the floor, clutching their bleeding faces. At least, I hope not. That would be horrifying."

"Oh, Christ, mate," the sniper growled, shrugging the spy off of his back. "I'm pretty sure that you're just trying to make my life more difficult." He could just imagine the next day at work. The sniper wasn't keen on being too close to his teammates, but he didn't want there to be animosity, either. The spy cocked his head to the side, the smiling falling off of his face. For a moment he looked slightly insulted, almost hurt, but he soon turned his frown into a wrinkle-nosed sneer.

"Au contraire, mon ami. Letting the freak give you electroshock therapy would make your life far more difficult than anything I could ever do." He lowered his eyelids and lit up a cigarette. "Your medic IS a sadistic son of a bitch. I regret listening to you and sparing his life."

"He's not so bad, really," the sniper mumbled as he turned to face the spy, not quite sure if he believed what he was saying. "I don't think he means any harm..."

"He does," the spy answered curtly, blowing smoke into the moist air. "Either that, or he is a fool who knows nothing of psychology. Perhaps both." He cleared his throat. "Shall we commence to the van?" The spy held out his arm In the direction of the car In a sweeping bow. The sniper crossed his arms, not budging. "Is something the matter?"

"' Why are you here, Spy?" the sniper asked darkly. The feeling of mistrust that bubbled up inside of him hadn't quite left. In fact, there was something almost unnerving about the spy's playful quality. The spy dropped his arm and furrowed his eyebrows.

"What do you mean?"

"Why did you sneak into the base?"

The spy laughed lightly, "I think you know why, Lawrence." The sniper tried not to let his reddening ears soften his suspiciousness.

"Well, you could've snuck around to do spy stuff. Stab backs, steal information... that sort of thing. I dunno. Spy stuff."

"Hm." The spy's gaze wandered off. "I can understand you not trusting me in your base. It would probably be wise of me not to follow you here anymore, no?"

"No," the sniper answered quickly in agreement. "I mean—erm—yes. Yes. Ah, listen." He began to rub the back of his neck uncomfortably. "This whole... thing. With us. It might not be the best idea to continue." He swallowed. The spy let the concept sink in.

"Funny," he hissed, sucking on his cigarette and narrowing his eyes. "I could have sworn I said the same thing this afternoon before you so passionately convinced me otherwise. I suggest you stick to your word, bushman."

"I suggest you stop—stop taking advantage of me!" the sniper snapped, reacting quickly and viciously as if the spy had poked him in a sensitive spot.

"Taking advantage of you?" the spy scoffed, throwing his head back and cackling. "Lawrence, you are a grown man! You cannot be 'taken advantage off." He added finger quotes for emphasis. "You are entirely aware of what I am capable of. You are merely trying to make up excuses for the fact that your common sense was cast aside by your prick."

"Oh, piss off, you bastard!" the sniper spat. He pushed past the spy and started towards his van.

"Where are you going, Lawrence?" the spy demanded, still standing near the entrance.

"To my van!" the sniper barked over his shoulder.

"And then where?" He was bloody clever, that spy. The truth was, the sniper didn't know where he'd be going from there. He never knew, really. The spy reached into his suit jacket and walked to the sniper's side. He pulled out his trademark cigarette case and snapped it open, holding it out to the sniper. "Would you like a cigarette?" The sniper shrugged miserably, then plucked one out and popped it between his lips. The sniper pinched the cigarette as the spy leaned forward, touching the end of his to the sniper's and letting it catch fire. The peals of smoke that curled from their mouths embraced and danced skyward.

"I don't get you," the sniper told the spy frankly. The spy snickered.

"What is it about me that you don't get, mon ami?"

"I don't get why you like me so much." The spy laughed again, louder this time. "What's so funny?" the sniper frowned.

"You. You are very funny, Kookaburra."

"Oy, stop calling me that. Those things are annoying as hell."

"My apologies. What would you rather I call you?" the spy asked, still grinning.

"Well, you do seem to be keen on calling my given name." The two men began to gravitate towards the van. Neither of them had made any mention of it, but rather it had been an unspoken agreement. Good thing, too. It was starting to rain.


End file.
